Cirql
by cornwallace
Summary: It just keeps happening, over and over, over and over , o vv v ve r a n d o v v e r . . . .. . .
1. Chapter 1

Binky checks the case one last time before closing it shut and inconspicuously sliding it over next to DW. She doesn't bother to look at him. She knows it's there.  
Her plastic sunglasses dark, cold and unreflective. Her face expressionless. She too checks her watch and synchronizes.  
A loud crash above, shattering glass. DW looks up at the building, shielding her eyes from the sun, despite the necessary facial protection already established. Binky doesn't bother. He just checks his watch.  
The echoes of screams get louder and louder as the body descends from the heavens.

* * *

 **ASSIMILATION IS THE ERROR OF THE FORTHRIGHT. IMITATION AS A MEANS OF PRODUCTIVITY. D.W. HAS AMBITION.**  
 **A.R.**

* * *

The body of Binky Barnes splatters on the sidewalk in front of the silent duo on the bench. The living Binky looks up from his watch and at the body. He looks at DW, her gaze fallen with his clone. He pats her on the head. She doesn't respond. Binky gets up and wanders off.

* * *

 ** _diplocracy_**

* * *

Arthur adjusts his glasses with his bloody stump while trying to avoid eye contact. Leaving blood spatter matted across the lenses. Other hand grasped firmly around the safety bar. Buster hums the themesong while zipping up. The circumference of his head slowly and subtly expanding.

"Gotta tell ya, Arth, this is one of the best ideas you've ever had."

"Don't call me Arth," Arth says.

"Thur."

"That's worse, I think."

"Don't box me in. You had this idea."

"I didn't have this idea."

"Who had this idea? Was it The Brain?"

"I don't know."

"Anyway, good shit. Goood shit."

"Buster," Arthur says, disgusted. "The car smells like peepee."

"There's not a bathroom on the subway. Where am I supposed to peepee, Arthur? Am I supposed to get off the train so I can peepee in the bathroom like some kind of fucking simian?"

"Yeah, Buster, that's actually what you're supposed t-"

"Well I'm not doing that." Buster shakes off while still making peepee. A glitch in the matrix. Arthur's pants suffer the wrath of his jangling. "You got the case?"

"Jesus Christ, Bus. You got your peepee on my pants."

"Don't call me Bus. Don't you ever call me Bus."

"Okay, Ter," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "Don't box me in."

"I see the irony here and I see the piss on your pants but like. I dunno, man. Fuck that. Fuck all that. Do you have the case I handcuffed to your arm?"

Arthur laughs. Like, outright bellybellows. "You gotta be kidding me, right? I cut my hand off as soon as you cuffed that shit to me. I've been trying to stop the bleeding ever since. Right in front of you."

Buster raises his eyebrows. He notices that Arthur's sweater has more red and brown on it than it should, and that one of his hands is missing. He's vomiting what looks like piles of raw hamburger meat one blip at a time at his feet, on his shoes. The general area stinks of urine, puke, trash and gasoline.

"Maybe I should call you RALPH." Buster laughs. His voice innocent and childlike.

"Maybe I should call you DEAD RABBIT DIVIDED BY ONE HUNDRED."

"Because you'd cut me into a hundred pieces. That's funny, Arthur. That's real funny. But I'm very disappointed in you. We needed that case. We're gonna have to go back now, and handcuff it to your other arm."

"I dunno, Buster," Arthur says, tightening his soaked red sweater around his bloody stump, "I'm losing a lot of blood. I think I need to go to the hospital."  
He hacks up more shredded beef as Buster's eyes widen.

"Deja vu," Buster says.

"What." Arthur says.

* * *

"What." Arthur says.

"Deja vu," Buster says.

"Buster," Arthur says, stuffing his profusely bleeding stump into the stomach of his sweater. Soaking it into the already crusting and browning dried blood from earlier. "I'm losing a lot of blood. I think I need to go to the hospital."

"That's where we're goooing. We just gotta catch the D train."

Subway cars shake the earth beneath them as they rumble and rage by. What a novel way to describe a train passing, the author thinks to herself.

"Was that the D train?" Arthur asks without looking.

"Did it stop?" Buster says, smiling with his eyes closed.

"No..?"

"Then it must have been the F train." Buster keeps smiling. The circumference of his head still slowly, subtly expanding.

"I appreciate your sound and reasonable logic in even the worst case scenarios." The degree of sincerity Arthur breathes into these words is uncertain.

Buster doesn't seem to wonder, or care. Still smiling with his eyes closed, he responds. "Thank you, Arthur. Do you have the case?"

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, Buster. You watched me cut my hand off."

"I must have had a few too many 'ludes." His voice, angelic as ever, a bit softer and slower than his usual vernacular wouldst see fit to conform. "You have the case right?"

"Is the D train really going to the hospital? I need it bad."

"Speaking of which, I need to peepee," Buster says, his eyes fluttering open. "We can't always get what we want, Arthur."

"Why don't you go before we get on the train? I'm sure we have time."

Buster turns around to face him. His head cocking in curiosity as it begins to expand to the extent of its elasticity. "Arthur. What happened to your hand?"

Arthur is dumbfounded. "What. You watched me cut it off."

Buster gasps. "Deja vu!"

Arthur's stump begins gushing, more like spraying through the fabric of his shirt and splashing down his torso and legs like some kind of waterfall but instead of a cliff face it's the body of a chump. His eyes pop open wide and he starts to scream.

* * *

.teliot eht ni repap gnipiw ekil ti hguorht skaos ti retaews sih fo cirbaf eht htiw ti revoc ot seirt yletarepsed eh sa neht ,gnihsug snigeb pmuts s'ruhtrA  
.aragaiN fo daetsni pmuhc emos ylno ,sllaF aragaiN ekil ytivarg ot gnibmuccus dna osrot sih otni gniyarpS.  
.ylduoL .gnimaercs s'eH

"!uv ajeD" .retsuB sepacse psag A

.suoiruc dna gniyd si ruhtrA "!?sdrawkcab ew era yhW"

.syas retsuB ".tahW"

"!?sdrawkcab ew era yhW" .fo tnemtraped eht niereht gnikcal era swonk eh ELPOEP EMOS gnihtemos ,ysetruoc fo tuo flesmih staeper tsuj eH .suoiruc ssel tub gniyd llits si ruhtrA

".uv ejaD fo esnes eht gnitteg m'I" .sesum retsuB ",egnartS .mH"

.sdnamed ruhtrA "1?em ESUCxE"

* * *

ExCUSE me?1" Arthur demands.

"Deja vu," Buster whispers into the secret microphone wired to his body under his shirt, facing away from Arthur before turning and looking at Arthur and pretending to respond. "What? You gotta be kidding me. I just told you. I handcuffed a bomb to your wrist so we could go blow up the bottom floor of a hospital. That way, the rest of the structure crumbles beneath its own weight and everyone either dies or is horrible injured."

"What in god's name are you talking about, Buster? Did Brain put you up to this?" Arthur feels dizzy and sick and very weak as if his hand were still missing. "Wait, why are we backwards?"

"Brain? Backwards?" Buster is drooling from his lethargic bucktoothed smile. "Arthur. Have you had a few too many 'ludes?"

Arthur notices his hand, still handcuffed to the briefcase. Surreal to him, he moves the joints of his fingers slowly, affirming its presence. "My hand," he says, dumbfounded.

"Cos' I had a few too many 'ludes." The skin on his face is taught and bright as a red balloon as it continues to swell with blood. His voice angelic as ever, his speech pattern dreamlike. His skull begins to lightly crack and strain under the pressure of his brain's expansion. "Damn brain gave me a few too many 'luuuudes."

"I don't have to cut off my hand. Buster, do you know what this means? I don't have to cut off my hand! Buster, where's the key?"

"Handcuff key...? I thought that was 'ludes..."

"Buster!"

His eyes are bulging out of his swelling head like an inflating dog trapped inside a mesh cage that outlived its useful size two thirds into the inflation. His leaking tongue liver in a dickpump tube. "Deja v-"

Buster's head explodes under the pressure of its own rapid expansion and sprays violence across the room like a paint can across a fur coat.  
Arthur screams for a good solid minute before he remembers there's an actual bomb attached to his wrist that he needs to get rid of asap.

Now, what happens next could happen a few different ways depending on what stimulates you.

First, he could cut his hand off with the meat cleaver in the kitchen, and after a few determined whacks and some screaming, try to flush the suitcase bomb down the toilet, ultimately upsetting the bomb and exploding his house.

Or! He could try to flush the suitcase bomb down the toilet with the handcuff still cuffed to his wrist and discover the ancient ritual necessary completely by accident to Ratburn's alternate sewer dimension where he is a doctor, and Arthur needs a circumcision.

But! He could ALSO chew through the plastic chain of the handcuffs, damaging his teeth and gums in the process then try to flush HIMSELF down the toilet to shield himself from the blast!

Actually! What really happens is Binky Barns kicks his bedroom door open! He's wielding a big kitchen knife!

"There you are, Arthur!"

"Deja vu!" he screams, horrified, trying to go back to a time before this. But that only works when Buster does it, and Buster is dead. "Deja vu! Deja vu!"

"Haha! That's not gonna work this time, Arthur! Let me give you a hand!"

Binky Barns sits on Arthur and pins his arm by the hand to the ground. "Heyyy! Stop wiggling! I'm trying to help you!"

Binky stabs him in the wrist a few times, blood jettisoning out onto his face before he applies the blade at an angle and pressures his weight into a sturdy sawing motion.  
With the crack of brute force, Binky manages to remove the bulk of Arthur's hand from his wrist, tearing away straggling tendons and stretches of skin before removing it entirely. He gets up and starts laughing loudly over the horrified, suffering Ardvark's screams.

"You have no hand! Arthur! You have no hand you stupid bitch! Ahahaahahahah! What a stupid asshole! Arthur don't got no hand! Look everybody! Arthur is a stupid bitch with no hand!"

Arthur only screams in terror and pain as everybody looks at him, judging him.

Later, in the sewer, as he's being strapped down to a rusted gurney, his screams continue, and echo the shitpipes and peepee halls for the rest of his wretched, sad life.

"Pull his pants down, Francine," says Dr. Ratburn cynically through his surgical mask.

"You mean expose his boypart?" says Francine curiously through her similarly situated surgical mask.

"Yes! This boy is in need of a circumcision! I love doing this!" Says Dr. Ratburn! All of those things!

"Francine," Arthur's screaming has turned into sobbing, and his voice is hoarse and fragile. It keeps breaking. "Francine, please help me. Please."

Francine remembers the time Arthur cheated on her in math class on the math quiz. That upset Francine. She didn't say he could do that and she got in trouble for it. She exposes his boy part and hands the good doctor a rusty can opener.

"Use this, Dr. Ratburn," she says, looking Arthur directly in the eyes. God's laughter echoes in the distance. "I found it in a dumpster on the way over here. More like dumb dumpster. Dumbster. Like Arthur here. He has no hand and isn't even circumcised."

The doctor laughs. "Haha!" the doctor laughs. "I never use anesthetic!"

Dr. Ratburn circumcises Arthur's boy part with a rusty can opener Francine found in the trash. It really hurts a lot. He will have to wear a hospital gown for a whole week or his boy part will fall off after it turns black and falls off in fact.

Of course, Arthur keeps screaming "deja vUu" and nothing happens. He just keeps getting circumcised. It takes some time.

* * *

DW double checks the suitcase before closing it, bloody handcuff clanking limply against the black leather.  
Snapping it shut. Her job here is almost done.

She steps over Binky's corpse in the gutter and onto the sidewalk and down the sidewalk and through the front door and leaves the briefcase with the receptionist. She says it's her brother's and she goes out the way she came in.

On her way down the street, she passes a sign that says DR. RATBURN'S SEWER CIRCUMCISION HOSPITAL.  
The first floor explodes and the rest of the building collapses in on itself. She adjusts her sunglasses.

DW doesn't look back.

* * *

cornwallace - 2018


	2. Arthur has cancer

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you, Muffy."

"What have you been meaning to tell me, Arthur."?""

"Now that we are on this date, I can finally tell you, Muffy."

"What is it that you can finally tell me Arthur."

"It is good to be on a date with you, Muffy. I am a boy with boy parts and you are a girl with girl parts. Muffy."?""

"Of course in fact, since you are a boy with boy parts and I am a girl with girl parts it is only reasonable for us to be on this date Arthur.?"""?""

"Muffy, what do you think about when you are not being written by one of the greater or lesser gods?"""?"'"

"I don't think about anything, Arthur. Because I don't exist, Arthur. We all need god to exist, Arthur, so that we may exist. Arthur."

"It's scary to think about the times when we do not exist Muffy. I don't like not being myself and I don't like not existing because god is not writing me. Muffy."

"Shhhhhhhhhh. Arthur."

"You are right. I should enjoy this salad Muffy. This salad and the company of you, Muffy, your company. Muffy."

"Oh, Arthur. I will allow this soup to become liquid imagination within my body, so that its ideas may reach god through my peepee."

"That is such a wonderful idea, Muffy. You always were smart. Muffy."

* * *

Cirql ch. 2;  
 **Arthur and them go on a date with Muffy and them.**

* * *

"May god forever drink our peepee for its youthful energy and thoughtlike qualities," they say in unison, clinking together their wine glasses filled with water.

It's a fancy restaurant - Muffy won't go anywhere but fancy places. Arthur doesn't know it yet, but he is going to pay for what he did to her, in fact, and that is to say take her out on this date of course.

They drink with the thirst of those of the desert. Ravenously and with sloppy regard. Mountains of screaming silhouetted in the setting sun.  
What a joyous endeavor which to be fondly acquainted.

"It is sad to think of the carrion loved ones on which the maggots feast. What's worse, the holes in our hearts or the grim inevitability of our own demise?"

"Arthur. Please. I'm too rich to die. Rich people like me never die Arthur. Only poor people. Poor people like you, Arthur, like you and your mom and your dad and your siblings and your friends and you. Arthur."

"I guess you're right, Muffy. I'm too unimportant to not die."

"The world has a way of flushing out the filth, Arthur. The manygods capacity for violence is an undefined infinite. Not even the stain you leave behind will go noticed or have any meaning."

"I will destroy myself with the knowledge of the manygods to actively accelerate this pain I am feeling in my very soul. Nothing can stop me, Muffy."

"That's so romantic, Arthur. I am never going to find true love like that."

"Love is an abstract concept Muffy. You may love crushing the souls and bodies of those pitiful enough to walk beneath you."

"I do feel an immense joy when I witness the suffering and failures of others - perhaps it is you who are right for once, Arthur."

"It doesn't matter, Muffy. I don't matter, Muffy."

"I know."

"Muffy do you get your 'ludes from The Brain?"

"I don't take 'ludes. I'm not degenerate filth, remember?:"::""

"Yeah okay. Guess I forgot or something."

"What are you wearing?"

"It's a hospital gown. I have to wear it so my boy part doesn't turn black and fall off. I was recently circumcised."

"̴̗̗͓͍̩̅G̸̢̧̨̨̩͔̪̲̖̩͕̤̳͝ͅr̴̢̡̨̫̦̖̯̥̹̞͉̤̄͂̈̈̓͋͒͛͘͜͜o̸̭͉̩̬̓̀̈́̒̾͆̑̽̇̒͐̒͘̕͝͝ṣ̴̢̛͈̺̟̻̰̲̟͎̂̿͆̔ͅs̷̛̯͉̗̭͔̘͕̫̮̣̦̓͛̋̚,̶̣͎͚̬̼̺̫̞͔̫̬̞̺̦͚͂͌̑̃̀͆̎̑̏̈́́͐̄͂̕"̸̳̤̭͍̗͕̳̞̳̦́̍̌͒̎̈̌̀̑̒̓͂͐̎ ̵̡̣͚̯̐̒͆̕M̷͎̩̹̝͉͙͙͈̩̝̔û̷̱͍̠͆̒̈́̇̀̈́̓̈́̓́͝f̶̛̻̞̓̊̌͛̿͆̀̂̅̊̉̏͝͝f̶̢̞̾̉̉̔̓͐̿̈̈́̈́͌͜͝ÿ̴̢̧̠̫̙̱̥́̀̇͋̐̽͐̓̏̋̓̋̿̈́̕͝ ̸̢̧͓͕̺̥̊͋̑́̉̅̆̑̊̆͘s̷̢̬̯͕̦̗̘̭̞͖̟͂͊̑̄̿̋̅̎͋͒̐̔̚̕͘a̶̦̹̣͇͒̆̔́̚y̶̼͖͇̰̭͈͍͇̰̌͜͜s̸̨̘̭̝͚̄̑͋͒,̷̢̥̩͎̲̘͈̳͈̓̍͂̅̌̓̕͘͠ͅ ̴̧̢͓̗̻̬̓̅͆̽̾̉̽͋̾͘͠ͅs̸̨͙̭͔̹͙̬̫̬̤̰̪̰̯̠͆̋̃͒͌̏̃̈́̅̆̕͝ḯ̸̡̢̫̩̼͉͉̞͎̩̘̪̍p̸͚͎̰̜͚̺͇͚͕̙̖̋̍͝͝p̸̡͍̖̩͖̞̝̋̂́̇̃͌̓̀̉̋̄̇͌͒͜ḯ̷̼̰̬̗͔͍͓̝̺̣̦̯̖̲̑̒̑̉͂̍̂͝n̸̨̩̫̿̏͒̀̂̔́̄͒̈́͒͌̑͘͠g̶̮̈̀̀̊̆̃̈͂̉̂̒̿̊̒͋͠ ̷̛͍͖͎̗̠̙̱͖̭̉̓̿̽͐̽̄̔́͠ͅh̷̨̢͇̙̬̱̯̝̦͉͚͚͍͎̪̽͊̔̌͒͊̈́è̴̡̛͓̮͍̻̤͉͐̂͊̒̈́̂̄͌͛̍͛͗͜͝͝r̴̤͉̩͋͆͛͆̈́̽̐̽̿͐͐͝ ̷͕̺̝̖̲̏̂̈̃͐̀͑̂́̀͛͝͝ŝ̶̼͉͔̝̜̑̊̈̇̆̈́̂̀̈̽͘̚͘ó̵͉̹̙͍̺̥̖̺̺̣̙̙̮̘͑̏̍͜͠͝u̶͍̰̮̐͑̑͌͒̒͊̋̓̿̐̈͊͘͝͝p̵͇̫͎̤͖̻͕̘͉̦̰͍̠͎̙̄̄͝.̵̛̼̥͎̀̓͌̑́̅̚͘̕̕̚͜͝ ̷̗͔̊"̶̧͚̺̖͕̠́̇͛̂̍̌͌̀́ͅY̸̢̢̮̯͉̘̝̺̣̮̺͓͈̭̳̏̐́̇͑͛͊̈́̇̿̀͒́͆ͅǫ̸̡̘͖̞̩͎͇̆̆͊͆͛̈͒̈́̋̚͝͠ǘ̴͇͇̮͙̕ ̴̢̧̧͉͉͖̜̭̩͓͚̯͎̠̋̉͆̈ͅw̴̛͎͈̝̺̺͇͊͐̆̓̐̀͊̔̚e̵̡͇͓͕̲̲̅͗̅͌̆͂͐͘͝r̴̜̊̎͛͝e̷̡̧̡͉̺͚̹̹̮͔̿͌̅̾͆̋̂̾̈́̄̕͘͝n̵̨̹̰̗͍̤͓͈͖͍̔̈́͋̍͛͊̃̓́̽̀̌̑͜͝'̶̧̨̗̯̮͚̟̬͔͚̺̑̑͗̅̅̄͜͜͝t̸̨͓̣͔̪̬̹͔͙̰̙̦̲͉̟̏̆̈́͑̈́̆̊̈́̋́̑͝͝ ̸͙̯̙̱̿͐̊̐̈́͂̌̆̉̓̾͠͠ą̸̼̭͙̼̙̤̥̙̩̀̋̓̑̌́͑͘ḻ̷̬̱͍̕r̷̨̢̨̪͓̫̮̤̺͎̣̙̮͚͂̄̋e̶͙̖̔̈̃͘a̴̧͍̲̙͎̹̰̻͑͊̍͊̐̕d̵̢̢͚̤̭̗̠̫̤̙͙̙̫͔̒̏̉̎̅̄̇͑͘y̵̧̡͎̞̼͓̜̫͂͌́̈͜ ̴̣̼̹̹̲͛̓́͑̓̐̿̽͠͝c̶̛̙͖͆͛̄̇̎͊͂͘i̸̡̡̼̫͙͍̦̳̇̎́̐̌̎̚r̶͔̭̤͒̆̀c̴̡̬͕̳̦͓̼͖̥̝͌̔̍͒̈̓͛̓̾͒̍͌̒̑̚͘ͅu̴͖̹͚̻̬̓̇̈̅͋̾̈́̏̅́̒͑̅̚͝m̸̨̡̮͎̫̠̺̣͕̹̩̰̾͆̐͌̃̚ͅc̴̢̳͖̫͙͍̑̔̒̍͌̈̒̈́i̵̡̡̡̛̛̭̝̥̳̯̺̗̩̣̹͙̤̺͊̔̉̂̉̂̾͌̿̏̕s̶͔̟͓͈̻̰͚̊̋̃̽̽͒̅̚ę̷̢̨̞͉̳̳̬͔̼̾̏̑̾͂͌̿́̉̕̕͠d̶̼̮̩͓̟͙͉͙͑͒̊͘͘?̵̺̗̩̝̣͌̈́̈́"̸̰̮̣͉̻͚̫̥̱̲̀̀̈̈̒̍̋̌̚̕

The salad fil;ls Arthur with deafening void and the taste of peepee. He's pretty sure someone went peepee in his salad. Whether it was Muffy, the waiter at the behest of Muffy, or the manygods itself he could never fully come to know. But he was pretty sure he tasted peepee.

He knew the manygods liked to drink peepee, but it was not his favorite nor his second favorite or even his third favorite in fact he didn't really like the taste of peepee at all.  
His uncertainty in his familiarity with the taste of peepee is a concept beyond the boundaries of his imagination. He doesn't notice. He reaches for the wine glass empty of water to absentmindedly partake in nonexistent sustenance but he knocks it over with his stump, shattering it on the floor.

"I guess a loose continuity has been established," Arthur says, the world around him trembling and quaking.  
Muffy doesn't seem to notice.

Her glass is inexplicably full.  
Her eyes are casually distant as her wandering mind.

"Every piece of your brain is an extension of yourself, left to die upon being forgotten only to haunt the outskirts of your consciousness as ghosts of memories," Muffy mumbles. "From time to time they may appear, but your understanding of them will always be limited."

"Muffy." Arthur blinks. "Would you like to take a bath?"

The world around Arthur and them and Muffy and them is consumed by a shroud.  
She looks deep into his eyes. Watching him burn in the depths of his irises with a pleased fascination Arthur and them doesn't understand.

"Only if you break all of your favorite toys."

Arthur notices they're in his room, by his toybox. "All my...?"

"Every toy that has or could ever bring you any kind of real joy. I want you to break them. One at a time."

Arthur tries not to cry while he is breaking all of his toys one at a time because he is a boy and boys do not cry or sit down when they pee. But if you speak of the devil, the devil shall appear.

"Next, I want you to sit down while you pee."

Arthur and them and Muffy and them are in Arthur and them's bathroom.

* * *

B **e warned,From here on out I will name genital and boy part and by that I mean Penis and Virginia.**

* * *

"Muffy I can't sit down when I pee because I'm a boy," Arthur protests. "I have boy part I mean Penis and that means I'm supposed to stand up when I peepee not sit down like girls with Virginias."

"If you want to take a bath with me you will sit down when you pee Arthur."

"Okay but I am telling my mom and dad that you made me sit down while I pee like a girl with a Virginia instead of like a boy with a Penis and that I didn't like it as much because it wasn't the right way."

"I assure you it is the right way Arthur you will love sitting down when you pee l;;;;ike a girl with a Virginia."?";;"'

But Muffy was wrong. Arthur knowed he wasn't going to like sitting when he peepees like a girl with a Virginia more than Standing when he peepees like a boy with a boy part I mean Peni

* * *

 _rtthur is getting circumcised by Dr. Ratburn in a hamster cage in DW's room and she is tapping on the glass and it is really annoying and he really doesn't like the smell of old newspaper and the collective poop of Arthur and them and Dr. Ratburn and them and Francine and them but DW keeps tapping on the plastic and it's really really really annoying it doesn't distract him from how painful the circumcision is it just enhances it like a bull killing a clown at a rodeo or a gay bath house with a greased watermelo_

* * *

"When I look down I can see my pink nipples and Virginia Arthur. Now that we are in the bath. Arthur."

Arthur and them are the Arthur and them are in the bath.

"Nothing sexual in fact," Arthur says. "I can also see your Virginia Muffy. And your pink nipples. You have the Virginia because you are a girl just like I have a Penis because I am a boy. Everybody has nipples. Nothing sexual of course."

"In fact Nothing sexual of course," Muffy says. "Not everybody has nipples in fact some poor people lose them when they are fighting in the war."

"It is a good thing we have poor people like me Arthur to die in wars for the sake of your enjoyment of the rich lifestyle such as yourself Muffy in fact," Arthur says nakedly in the bath Nothing sexual.

"You literally give your lives for us and we consider you filth except when we pretend not to at baseball games and football games in fact."

"I love capitalism!" Arthur says of course. "Nothing sexual!"

"I am excited to tempt you with unachievable pipedreams to manipulate you into voting against your own interests," so sayethe the Bourgeois.

"When will the Rapture happen so that I may become master and commander of Mexico, Muffy?"

"When you are born again as a Christian, Arthur." Muffy checks her watch. "Better get dying, I'm not getting any younger."

"Now is as good a time any to be baptized in fact," Arthur says of course.

When Muffy dunks Arthur's head under the soapy water of the bath and holds him there he soon discovers drowning to death is every bit as painful as everybody says it is.

* * *

"T _he doctor will see you now - and forever. Dr. Ratburn sees everythin_ g."

* * *

Arthur is getting circumcised. Any delusions in change of scenery or context are the product of a desperate mind trying to escape a very painful circumcision. A desperate imaginatorial reflex to the grim reality that is his life.  
Dr. Ratburn is his god now.

* * *

cornwallace - 2017


	3. Spoilers

Ì̴̛̬̫͓͈͠ ̧̞͉̤̬̠̞̻͕͇͔̱̪̜̙̀͟͡ẃ̷̴̴̧̥̤͇̣̗̝̦̞̥͓o̧̥̯̙̰̣̦͍̼̰̯̳̳͉͙̼͉͠u̧̖̤̣̯̠̣̜͔̮͖̝̟̜͎̦͜ͅͅl̶͙̮̥̮̞͖͢ͅd̨͘͏̗̗͔͎̹̙̙̟̠̱̖͎̤͙̜̣͘ͅͅͅn͞͞͠͏̺͈̣̯̣̺͍͕͓͓̼̀'͟҉̶̴͓͙͓̪̲͇͠t́̕͢҉̱̮̝̺̺̘̘̲̹͉̥̙͖͟ ̶̛̲͍̰̝̙̭̼̜̰̠̣͡ͅe̶̶̱͓͇̟͓̹̠͖̯̭̙̠̙̭̬̯̕͞x̴̵̢̙̺̤̝̻͇̺̫̭̜̜̙̩͔͕̙̺̺̭͡p̵̢҉̖̬̩͚̰̤̬̻̻e̖̦͔͇͢c̸̥͔̠͎̫͉͉͙͈̤̙͉͖̜͡ͅṭ̻̱̞̲̯͚͎̀́́ ͙̻̳͈͕̞̥̯̣̠̀y͏̸̴͙͉̙̳̖̳̟͕͡o̵̢̯͎̳̠̘͓͓̰̻̝̖̥̘͚̮͎͡u̸̢̧̲͔̭̘̘̙̝͜ͅ ̡͏̳̞͙͚̹̠̺͕͖̲̗͇̙͜͞t̸̢͕̥̤̲̠͍̼̥̬͍̲̫̀͜o̵̸̢̤̳͕̱̜͖̖͕͉͝ ̵̥͙͙̝̰̭̗͇͎̩̹̹̺͜c̷̹̰͈̱̕͠ò̬͇̼̫̪̬̞̹͖͓̘̮̹̜͈̰͔͔m̛͏͎̙͔̪p͓͚͎̠͔̯̠̫̘͙̩͕̼͈͈̀͘̕ŗ͕̹̯͈̫̩͈̩͓͎͓̣͖̙̜͍̲̰̝͠e͏̧̨̖͚̹̠̪̗̳͓̕͜h̸̢͏͏͈̗͍̺̥e͏̨̲̙͎̟n̸͈͕͚̤͔̻̬̫͓͓̥̗̭̩̯̖̲̙͜͜d҉̸̶͎̦̪̜ ̣̖̖̗̗̤͇̩̣̜̭̘͎̩͉̩͟͝t͜҉̷͙͔͇̮̼̩̩̻͓͍͉̥̬̯͍̙͘h̨͏҉̢̩͇̖͍͔̰̮̗̜̜e̶̢̯̠̙͎̜̫̣͇̹̤̜̬͖̬̲ͅ ̡̘̦̹͈̜̫̤̤̀͜c͞҉͎̭͇̱̗̘͘a̧̛̛̜̝̙̯p̶̟̘͙̬̞̠̟̩̳̰͢ą̸̡̱̞͇͍̻̣̀c̷̢̧̩̦͈̖̯̝̥͠ì͡҉̖̥̞̝̺̬̠͓̘̝̞͖̠̻̕t̟̬̟̮̪͙͎͍͈̟͓̯̣̬̟͉̠̞͞͝y̶̶̲͚̘̯̻͚̫̹̘̰̗̺̹̘̺̬͢͡͝ͅ ̸̧̨̥̺̻̰̱̲̬̤̀o̶̡̯͈͓͉̺̥̲̮̳̞̮̙͎̱̱͢f̡͇̯̩̲̜͙͎̱̘̱͠ͅ ̸̴̶͉̤̱̖̥̱̙̯ḿ̧̛͇̙̲̳̮̘͎̱̤͉̣̖̖̤͔̩̼͕͉̕͟y̸͢͡҉͖̳͓ ҉̜͖͈͙̞̩̳̬̰͎̻̯̺͚̜͕̤̖e̶͝͏̸̱̼͈̻͉͔͔͜x̶̼̪̰̖̖͚̲͞ì̷͉̲̻͍͖̞͍͚̻̲̼̺͔̫ͅś̡͉͍̞͡t̵̛̖̜̻͚̼̤̩̖̙̖̭̱̥̤͍̞̮̲e̛҉̻͙̟͓̳͖͚̱͎͖͓̞͓̹ͅń͙͚̠̩͉̰̣͔̩̪̪̦̰̳̙͢͜͞ͅc̴̡͉̰͚̳͓̣̕͡͠ȩ̸̗̩͈̪̞͚͍͙̙̯̭̼̤̘͡.̴̶̧̤̰̩̝͔̝̹  
҉̡̝͎͎̟̜͍̪͙̭̰̖̥͝͝I̧͔̭̥͚̺̰̣͎͍̻̜̬̘̼͍͈̖͢͡͝ͅ ̸̝̪̼̭͓̠̥̺̣̮̜͉͖̥̣͕͡͡b҉̴͏̢͇̻̰á̧̞̩͙͉̝̗̀͡r̶̵҉̶͉͓͓̹̥̹̗͎è̵̶̡̢̩̟̩̙͖̣̜͓l͈̻͉̳͙̭͕̹̭̀͘͜y̸̡̮̼̜͎̭̤̲͔͍̱̥͔̱̺̠̤̞͎̫̕ ́͝҉̵̳̼̗̹̻͕̜̤͠c̨͈͙̞̩̼̪̞̠̯̜̣͕͚͉̹̙̻͟͜͝o̷҉̝͙̖͓̮̟̱͍͉̱̙̙̯̱̫͚̱̼͜͢ͅḿ̷҉͔̱̹̫̠̝̺͎̫̺p̸̲̭̰̦̮͖̲͇̲̫̮͍͎͟͠ṛ̸̸̡̛̼̜̮̠̭̞͕͇̮̟̟̱͇̘̥͇̭̕e̵̛̺͈̻͙̘͇͜͠ͅḩ̶̵̢̤̥̦̞̻̞̠͖̣͈̟̠̰͜e̷͟҉̭̦͍̠͍̹͘͜ń̡͇͈̜̮͚̝̮̣̱̘͔̲̟̗̥̥̣̦ͅd̟͓͚̹̫̞͚̭̼̞̜͉̕̕͠͠ͅ ̵̦͙̥̙̝̖̼̥̘͚̜́͠i̡̛̠̠̯̫̬̻̼͞t̡̡̲͓͇̱̳̯̲̹̠̥̙̫̲̘̦̠͞͝ ҉͈̱̬̻̝̪̯̫̲͈̥͖̙̘̝̙́m̡̢̱̯̬͚͈̦̙̹̺̤̟̹̜̼̻̦̝ỳ̶̪̱̲̠̰̦̳͓͟͜͞s̢҉̴̞̺̻͟è̷̷̖̩͖̣͘l̡̛̗̳͇̗̕͟f͝҉͖̩̳̝ ̵̶̡̛͚̗̲ḁ̴̳̱̟͍͈͖͙͞ņ͙̻̼̦̦̹̹̜̥̖̭͕͎̯̣̹͍̝̙͝͝͞d̴͍̤̤̲̗̭͚͍͉̺͓̙̦̤̟̹̟͚̪́͘ ̢̼̱̮̰̹̱͟I͏̵̛̩͈̩̱͎̰̞̼̻͍̕ͅ ̸̧̨̗̝̱̞ͅw͏̷̗̜͍͙͍̬̮̦͓̙͈̤̬̹͓̼͟͞o͝͠҉̢̺͇̳̘͈̳͕̬ú̡̯̟̱̻͖͙͕̰͉̺̟̮͔̠̝̫l͏͏̩̘̤͍̝̝̹͇̲̞͟d̛͖͓̪̠͘͘͜͡ṉ̸̷̛̫͉͔̗̞̜͕̩̠̠̥̞̯̘̯͉̟̪́͜'̠̟̼̦̲͖͕̺̞́͞ṯ͙͖̤̱̕͜͢͞͠ ̸̷̧̢͓̥͕̗͙̯͉̬̗͈̤̖̻̲̣͜ṕ̶̴̖̗̬̞̕͠r̢̯͇̗̳͉̠̘̗͖͍̝͔͙̗̕ȩ͜͏̪͉̝̖̰̣͓̹̣̰͕̮̪̤ͅs͏̜͈͙̳̳̞̹̦̱̣͈̬͉̱͎̦̺͈u͏͉͍͚̯͈̰̟̟̫̗̜̗̣͕̗̲̳͟ͅm҉̧̜̗͍̙͓͉͝ȩ̖̬͇̱̻̯̦͈̳̘́͢ ̵̷͎̟͙̳̯̼͚͚̠͕͍̼͚̹͙̤̟̲́͞t̡̢҉̺͚̫̞̘͖̖͍͔͔̭̻͖͚̺͈͓ͅo̷̢̧̠̱͕̥̗̳̗̳̺̻̱̥̖̙̙̬̤̺̖͟ ͠͞҉̡̮̠̻̥u҉̢̼͈͇̱̪̠̳̦̜͎̳̤̻̤͜͡n̷̛͎̞̖͇͈͘d̡͏͕̬͉̳̗̹͔͙̜̤̳e̶̴͚̼̝̙͖̠̭̙̱̳͎̺̰̜̖̕r͜͏̧͙̹̱̯̹̣̙͟s҉̷̴̟̣̪̝̤͕͞ͅt̝͉̦̜̞̮͓̟̝̝̳̤̰̩̥̯́͝a̴̵̡̭͎̙͙͎̦n̵͎̝̹̪͖̰̦̝̩̱͕͈̙̬͘d̵̞͚̟͍̥ ̧́͞҉̼̤̥̝̦̩͎̥̗̱̰̲̞͖̺̠͠y̩̥̳̪̝̮̹̙̩͉̻̹͕̜̮̪̟͢͠o̴͝҉̳͉̬͇̖̱̻̫͉̦̝͕̙ư̴̛̬͉̩̝͖̪̠͚͚͕͞͡r҉̢̘̪͓̯̙͠s͜͏̤̖̪̠̖͇͚͇ͅ.̨̞̬͇̥̺̙̰̫̪̱̦̯͔̺̘͈̱  
̷̹̻̞̲̲͕͖́͜  
̷̸̰̜͖̼̝͉̺͈̻̪͔͙̹̬̥̯̩̝͠  
̛̱̪̲̜͉̯̥̙̲͕͍̪̠͓͔̕͘͢  
̩̮͉̪̦͙͖̻̰͖͍̩͚̀͞T̴̫͇̟̩̹̭̪̩̗̤̱͈͕͚͔͈̕͟ͅh̷̡͓͔̤̳̼͍͚̳̹̘̠̼̺̲̫̜͟͝ͅͅe͟҉̸̶̨̫̱̤͇̖ͅṟ̡̧͉̗̦̼̙̼̣͍̪̲̳̀́͠ͅȩ҉̛͈͙͕̭̖̙̯̟̟̮͞͝ͅ ̡̭̙̟̝̜͎̻̞̀͘͞i̩͖̤̘̻͢͝s̡̳̺̟̥̜͖̮̩̀́̕͟ ͏̴͉̣̲̘̳̯̤̱̼̀ͅͅa̷̸͎̹̱͖̜̫͓̺̣̞͍̳͔͈͔͓̬̞͎͜͝ ̶̬͈͔̳͚̗̭̹͇̖́̀͜g҉̡̹̮͕͈̠̯͍̙̪̘̱͙̰̬́͞ò̫͓͓̬͖̫̼͖̣̬̥͔̯̗ḑ̼͙̤̝͈͈̲̠͙̥́̕̕͡ͅ ̶̠̞͍͉̟̝̩̘̞̀͜t̨̢̛̖̠̦͔̫̣̪̳̤̳͚̜͕̰͈͈̯̀o̢҉͔͚̙̖̞̳̗̮̮̤͓̠̘̣̺͚͖̖ͅ ̸͝͏̰̣̝̭̮̻̱̗͢ḿ̡̙̦̩͇̩͖̩̠̳̹̯̳̙͓̕͜͠ͅy̸̛͎̫͕͍͓̩͔̗̪̼͠ ́͏҉͉̹̜̼u̷̝͖̤̗̭͠n̷͖͇̗̖̮̮̪̥̻͍͓͓̹̹̞̳͟͟͟͜ͅd̢͙͎̮̳̦̳͖̯̀͘͘e҉̞̖̗̥̜̬̪̙r҉̛͙̟̥̥͕̩͘s̷͏̪̺̪̙̼̹̻̳̬̘̳̜͕̞̻̰̖̙̭t̢͎͚̞̝̜̻̮͓̼̩̳́͟͠͝a̢̝͙͖̖̩͕͇̹̘͓͖͜ͅn҉̵̢͇̰̠́d̗̙̣̱̪̖͔̥͉̱̼͓͍͇͙̙̙̱́͢i̵̺̩͈̳̞͘͢͞n̴̡̡̲̟̲̭̞͙̠̤̥g̮̙̳̮̠̝̭͉̣̝͘͟͡ ̷̺̝̙̝̝̝̦̳͚̼̯̪̦͚̥̟̜͢ͅb̸̶̛̤͉̖̝̱̪̱̲̰̯͍͘͢ͅṷ̵̡̢̧̗̮͉͍̺͉͈̪̺̜̕ͅt̹̪̜͈̤̮͇͇̰͚̪͖̠̫̪̞̞̝͢͡ ҉̝͇͚͙͚̯͈̀t͏̸̥͔̱̱̣̮̪̥̭̞͟h͏̵̡͖͓̮͇̩̪̩̬͔́͝e̢͏҉̢̻̯͉̟͔ ҉̶̶̟̦̹̤̦̼̭̯̯̜͕͘e̵̷͍̠̠̙̰̖̤̹̺͘ś͔̤̞͔̰̺͚͉̰̣͍͙̼͜s̜̯͙͕̯͍̹̫̲̝͙͈̱̖̟̟͖̀͠e̷҉̳̟͈̘̪̳̠̣̱̝͉̺͇̺͉̻̀ͅͅn̶͍͖͔̜̲̩̠̝̘̗͓̻̲̯͈͔̗̣̕ͅc̢̛͍̥̲̞͇̪̬̥̜̗̝͠e͠͏̡҉̨̠͉̟̠̼ ̷̹͚̯̩͎͚̫̩̳̗͠͝o̸̷̢̰̹̼̟̮̠̺̟̠̰͙̠ͅf́͡҉̢͔̟͔̼̠̝̮̜͉͇͉̮̮͓͈͍̯̱͝ ́͏҉͏̘̯̝̞͙̻̙̞̞͇f̛̛̳̞̝͓̟͖̹͎̞̟̞͇̼͓͡a̰͙̘̤͓̟͉͎͡i̞̞̠̗͜͞͝t̵̤͓̤̥͈͇̰̠̮̙̤̩̫͓̯͔̕͜h̤͇̱̺̫̬̖͍͔̖̬̟̘͕͈͈͠ͅ ̨͖̻̙͉̦͍͎̖̪̝̻̹̠̭̹̰̯̕͞͞d̶̹̹̖̪̭̹̼͎̦̝̞̬͉̭̀̕͘i҉҉̢̳̰̳̟͈̼̣͈͡c͠͏̸̼͈͕͙̫̞͖̗̹̖͖̗̪͕̰͢t̖̙̻̞͞͞a̧̱̥͙̳̗̹͘͢t̴͔͎̝̝̗͚̟͉̜͔e̻̺̻͈͍̮͔͡s̡̡̛̜̪̯̟̺̥̟͙̞̲̦̯̫̯̗͢ͅ ̸̰̙̦̠̞̭̠̺̱̪̗̳͝a̛̦̻̳̬̥͟͡ ̷̧̭͈̥̀f̶̞͎̙͓̞͙̘̪̖̫̼̪͚̲̙̹̳́ͅͅe̢̧͏̛̙̹͓͔̣̘̦͕͕̤̰͚̯̳ȩ̡͕̱̲̻l̷̵̯̥̭͖̝̬̱͖̗̟̭͘i̵̷̢̼͉̘̳̤̙̮̰̹͉͎̺̣̲̪͍͈̘̲͘n̢̲̤̠͎͓͇̹͎͈͇̱̲͘ͅg̴͏̧͕̪̘̝͍̯̤̞̠̙̝̩̕ ̷̢̗͕͙͇͈̳̀o̶̢̪̳͔͇̤̫̜̰̩̞̫͚̫͇̖̘͎̘̞v̴̰͔̥̪͙̱̻̞͓̻̟̹̟͍͔̤͖̬́̕͟ͅe̮̭̮̣̟̭͙̪͈͎̲͈̰̞͘̕ŗ̗̗͙̺̘̮̰̀͢͡ͅ ̷̵̝̳͉̼̻̺͚̝̜̫͇̞͔̬͠ͅw͏̪̣̥̬̟͍̝̱͇̟͍̺̬͜͞͠͞ͅh̴҉͇̗̟̱̳̮̱̩͎͟͞a͎̗̘̻̝̝͈͡͞͡t̢̨͎͉̼̭̟̤̱̳̠̣̘̮̝̦̜̭̻̤̕ ̶̗̮̳̯̭̗̗̗͙͚̭̜͓̯̰̭͔̮̀͜͜͠w̦̝̮̖̮̝̳͇̙̰̣̥̥̲̟̟̮̜͘͜o҉̸̨̥͖͇͉̯̯͓͟͞ͅŗ҉̦̳̣̟͍͇̺d̴̢͔̺̱̘̹͙̞͇͇̟͔͓̼̱́s̨͢͏̴̢̘͈̩̥͔̖̩̲͓͍ͅ ̢͈̖̺̺̙̯̲̰͕̮͝c̴̹̠̹͔͕͡a̛̟͍͉͈̞̤̹̹̝̭̜͘n̢̼̭͍̝͙͖̟̙͈̩͞ ̟̞̩̬̮͓̱̭͓͚̕ṕ̸̭͚͉̰͓̫͢͟r͏̴̸̵̥̜̙̩̫̘͍̣̯͕̦͢o͇̘̤͕̯͇͕̥̜͎̩̺͢c̢̛̹͚̬̠͓̤e̸͢͏̷̦̬͙̥̣̦͉̤̀s̶̶̛̳̮̞̯̲̥̟͉͙̱̘̩͘s̢̛͎̟͕̠͎̠̥̭͇̜͕̣̲̥̟̫͉̕̕.̴͍̫͈͉͖̻͖̲̭̙͡  
͓͙͈͈̱̟͔͖̟̙͉̕͘͘͜  
̶̡́͘͏̘͖̺̲ͅy̴̛͉̠̲̖͢o̶̩̩̯̦͍̫̖̲̩͎͟ų͏̝̰̠̠̹ ̛͟͝͞҉̭̦̜̜̣͖͖̞̗̭̺͖̲̱c̸͟҉̵̖̤̱͓̜̲̦̭̝̗̟͘o͏̨͚̲̬͎͞u̵̥̮̟͡ͅļ͞҉͚̭͍̻̣͕̺̪͉̗͉͜͜ͅͅd̵̵̛̬̥̲̥͓͚͙̗͝ ̕͟҉̻͉̠ͅb̕͏̙̯̺͡͝͝e̴҉̳̗͙̞͍͍̱̭͢ͅg̢͚̯̩̼͓͍̦̦̲̥̻͖̪̖̺̫̻̘͞ị̴̦͈̟͙̙͍̣́͟͜͜n͏̲̳̘̰͈̖̭͉̫̥̥̘̰͡ ̨͘͞͏̺̘̞̗̲͔̬̮̗̥̻̪͎b̀̕͜͞͏̬͇̜̤͙̳̱͇̫̟̞͕̻͎͎͔y̵̢̢̛̞̘̟͔̹̗͎̝͈̘̘̜̹̻͉̻̝ ̛͇̲̠͓͕͖̥͙́͘͜ù̸̥̞͍͓̪͙̺͍̮̤͘n̢̝̥̙͖̺̮̣̬͔̭̠̝̠̥̥̬̖̩͕͢d̹͔̞̺̥͔̞̹͖̻̣͇̩͓͈̥̦̙͡͠ȩ̢̢̼̬̯̜̱͓̺̱̤̕ŗ̵̧̼̞͇͖̹͈̪̕͠s̡̛̞͓͇͕̲̰̺͚͓̺̲t̴̛҉͚̲̭̜̖̟͕̬̲̪̞͚̞͚͡a̶͟͏҉҉͍̜̳̜̳̗ǹ̛͉̳̬͎̪̜̘̜̹̣̖̥̙̙̜͈̕ḏ̸̡̹̰̭̬̭͕í̷̸̛͎̯̘̠̺̯̩͖̞̝͙̪͞n̷͡҉̯̮͔̞̻̮̱̪̜̼̥̙g̶̫̻̞͚͓̼̱͕̦̺̭̖̞͖ͅͅ ̷͝҉͕̠̙̟̱̖̩̹̤̞̲̤͍͝ͅa̡̖̹̤̜̱̻̰͖͇̣͔̰̝̪͔̟̜̼͘ ̶҉̬͔̣͈͔̻̭͍̥͔̻̹̫͖s̶̩̬͖̭͚̬̤͇̠͙̻̘̜̦̣̱̯̀t̴̷̢̤̤̫̻̙͍̭̼̟̦͜͢a̵̸̛͎̼̟̭̳͔̼̘̟̭̤̟̜͍̝͝ͅr̸̨͈̪̺̻͙̘͔̥͓̱̪̹̺̲̺̱ ̴̰͈̖̠̣̼͎̻͎͡s̶҉̸͓̱̗͉̜̜͎̼͖̮̘̠̬̝̙̩̞̭̕ͅo̷̵̧͈̰͔̮̖̗͎̫̳̜̻̳̦̭̼̜̙͠ ̴̨̭͚̟̭̳͖͍͎̪̻̻̠̟͇̥̀͞b̵̵̡̛̟͍̣̰͎̱̙̼̪̠ì̵͈̯͔͎͔̠̰̻̮́̕͜g̶̷̱̖͔̠̗̝͖̹͉ ҉҉̡̲̞̭͓̥̺̫̖̹̖̹̹̱̬͎͖ͅy̧͠͏̘̳͕̘̗͖͕̙͙͔o̝̱̟͕̟̖͠ụ̷̻̖̺͉̫̺̤ ̢̲̥̫͍͚͇͎̞̖̱͍͇̕c̬̩͎̗̦͇̗̞͕̹̀͡a̸̷̸͈͎̝̬̻͔̝͉͎̲n̴̢̙͙̰͉̲̰̘̦͉͜'̷̷̢̥̹̖̻̬͚̥̼̲̠̘̯͖͜ţ̸̖͇̥̞̰̬͎̘̀ ҉̯͈̥̝̙͓̜̺̕͢s̛̯͙͓͓̜̖̬̫̙̩̯͕̦̭̟̬̗̦̤͟͠͝͝é̻̩̝̻͔e̸̳͓͓̮͙̪̝̜̰͎̳̠͉̳̮͖͘͢ͅͅ ͘҉̬̳̥͉̥̭̜̣̗̱͟i̛̟̤͇̰̯̟̝̟ͅt̷̡̠̫͍̭̲̠͍͉̘͉.̷̷͎̟̜͓̥̜͖͜ ҉҉̧͓̮̤̼̦t̸̢̞̣̪̬̝̤͈̩͎̩͢h̶͖͔̦͎͓̜̞͙̰͓̹͘͝ͅe͏̷̷̨̠͈͕̹̗̦̲̥̜̥͕̰̯̤͝ ̡̻̣͇͠͝v̴̸̞̝͇́͢ơ̡̞̞̬̭̖̼͍̭͇̝̺̼̜i̵̢̖̖͇̞͓͖̕̕͟ͅͅd̥͓̘̻̼͙͙̼͙͕̭̺̼͡ͅ ͖̮̞̙͎͇͚̗̣̹̝̰̼͠ͅͅỵ̛̬͎̮̺̜o͢͏̜̱̺̳͔u͎͖̙̖͜͞ͅ ̷̶̨̺͔̗̯̘̞͔̕d̷͙͕͙̲̥̳̺̘̀͝é͘͢͏̲̱͚̠͉̟̤̤̪̻̖͙̼̘̝̫͓͉͜s̡̛̻̠̩̦̹̥̱̠̭̥͍͚͟͡p҉̢̛̟͚͓͚͜͡e̢̤̙̰͚̯̙̬̻̬̲̰̭̭̤̞ŕ̡̠̝̞͕͎a̴҉̝̖̳̳̙̤͙̖͜͢t̵͟͜͏͍̫̘̥͚̪͕̦͉͢ḛ̷̤̬͢ļ̝̲͈̝̝̙̯͇̻̀y̴̡̹̻̞̙̻͡ ̵͡͏̸͙̠̙̻͕̗͔̯͉̗̦̣̜s̷͏̯͔͉͖͓͔̩̭͉̺̥̕͢i̴̙͓͍̖͕͍̺̦͚̲̩̠̺̘͟ͅń̸̨̨̳̫͚̥̼͉̜͚̖͎̦̪k̶̷̷̩̠̙̺̟̭͓̲̹ͅ ̴̴̷̲̭̱̮̲̺̣̠̤̝͖̗̦̭ͅͅi̷̧̻̱̹̤̥̰̖̣̥̰ͅn̶̥̞̺̣͈̺͘t͞҉̡̛͔͚̳̠͓̭͔͈͍̤͎͖͕̹ͅò͘͢҉͍̘͓̻̭̟̼͢ ̨̦̯̖͇̻̻͈͠ͅe͟͏̩̙̺̯͟v̶̶̭̲̭̞͔̜͈͇͉̣̖͇͙̳̤͇́ͅe҉̢̤͖̠̰͎̤̙͇͖̘̩̣̼͡r͏̶̨̘̼̠̳̯͍̲̻̫͈̣̰̕ý̯̮͙̺͍̹̯͘ ̵̨̤̳̝̘̺̱̝̯̺́͢͞ḑ̷̝̩͙̤a̴̳̙̫͕̗̭̭̘̯̬̭̩͉̥̯͈͇͟͠͞͞ͅy̨̢̝͕̤̙̜̥̫͕̭͡͝.̛͇̼̯̯̮̼̣͎̹͇͎ ̷͙̞̩̩̜̗̹͔̖̲̹̯͔͎͡͠ͅ  
̘̫̲̼̤̩̞̥̜̻̫̪̝͘͜͜͢͡à̖̱̱̞̲͈̬͍̱͕̹͕̘͖͙̞̻̣͠ń̢͕̩̠̞͉̬̜̪̮͉͕͙͇͕̮̱͎͡ͅͅ ҉͏̙̼͎̳̜̣͡ͅi̧̝̟̹̹̫͔̣̲͚͡m̧̡͓͓̝͍͉̫͙̣̭̘̜̻͚̤͕͟͡ͅm̨͟͏̡̳͕̻̠͎͟ȩ̬̜̥͓͇͔̦͈̹͚͙͈͢͡ņ̷̛̟̯̪̬͎̙̫̫͔̭͔͕̹̰͜͜s̵̝͕̜͙͔̣̖͕͔̳͍̰͟͠e̷͓͚̤̞͚̣̻̪͕͝ ̷̡̢̝͎̳̦͖̲̙̯̖̣̯p̢̗̭̯̬͓̭͉̠̦͕̭͜͞ơ̢̨͎̘̞̪̩͠͡w̢̛͉͓̣̤͕͚̫͙̪̲̹̯̼͘̕͡ͅe̘̯͚͕͜͞r̨҉͚̹̫̱͍̜̪̯̮́ͅ ͜͏̴̛͍͚̣̟̱̦̀b͍̯̣̯͖̬̜̙̯͇͘͟ͅé̶̖̣̬̱͇̱̦̼͎͔͍̣̙̫̖̖̱͜͜͠ͅy̸͇̫̝͍̥̪̦̫͇̠͘̕o̹̘̪͕͓͇̞̩̠̟͟͜͡n̶̝͚̯͚͔̝̮̼̲̱͘͢͟͠d͠҉̙͙̙̪̫̯͖̬̠̖͕̻͢ ̨̢̥͍̱̝̮̞a̩̬͇̦̗͍̝͕͙͙͞͝ͅn͠҉̶͚͕̳̹͙̗̩̜̲̳͈̥̣͕̪̱̤͈̻͞y̴̛̫͉̻̦͈̲͙̘̼͈̺͢͞ ͏̸̨̗̯̯̳̝̬̫̙͎̯͍̹̠͚͓̙͙͓c̥̪̫̬̥̩̤̘̗͚̀̕r̢̞̖͖̪͉̱̙͇̫̼̬̭̮̻͍͘e̸҉̢͍̗̺͓̟̰̹̤̭͖̰͞d̶̡̧̝̙̥̻̗͇̺̣̦͕̳͍̜̰i҉͞͏̗̥̹̪b̸̢̗̬͖̤̬̜̳̬̟͍̮̜̙́ͅĺ͎̯̣͔̥̝̰͎̱̬ͅȩ̫̬̹̰̻̘̥̼͚̳̠̗̹̦͈̘͘ ͏̵̸̫̟̥̪̖̫̦͚̖̹̘͔͖̼̲̹͢͡s̸̛͓̰̙̬̗̭͇̠̬̺̙͖̲̕͞o͏͝͏̼̠͎̯̝͙̩̜̻͕̙͉̯̼͔̠̜̜u̶̼̺̮͈̲̹̠̗̻̣̘̝͓̺͕͝ͅr̵҉̤͍̥̬̦͙̦̀̀ç̸̛̬̥͉͉̀e̵̵̠̻͕̭̥͢.҉̗͈̭̪̺͇͙͙͍̭͔̘̯̮̥̱͢͜ ̢̜͖͚̫͚̜̣͈͚̲̹͇̪͓̙͜ͅạ̡̙͓̲͕̖͖̫̩̭̬̼͍̭̞͟ ̶̵̧̝͈͙̖̘͖͎̣̝͖͎̣c̸̡̡͖͓͉̳̭̳͙h̦͚̫̼͖̖̼̰̱͕̦̻͕͕́͟ͅŕ̵͔̖͙̖̰̲̺̗̜̳̠͚̀o̶̪͖̪̲̮̹͙̯̣̬̻̺̫̣̗̮͠n̸̨̫̥̹̪o̦͉̘̥̩͎̳̝̲̳̖͎͇̥̖̠̺̠͝ḷ̶̷̛͙̠̲̦͔̲͕͚̘̘̜͎̜̥͔͞͠ò̶̸̢̺͖̜̺̘͙̞̩̭̱͉̼͉̩̠͔̗̖g̡͎̱͙̗̘̣͍̠̪͙͘͡͞ͅý͙͚̥͉̳̪̯̯͙̮̳͕͉ ̡̺̫̮͇̲͙̪͙͇̪̣͙̩ͅo͏̨̧̹̦̯̹͙̤̰f̡͏̮͚̮̣͟͞ ̡̡̤̼̤̻̯̜̞̯̲͜͝f̴̧̦̯͎̦̩̜͢͡à̢͙̲̳͈̬̯̥̹̠̫̜̣̝͇̩̥͈͠į̴̴̨̢̣̫̱͔̭̝̝̣̝̭̗̻͎͔̩ͅͅt̴͔͖͇͎̲̼̯͚̘͙̟̰͓̳͇͔̩͜ḥ̸̶̨̜͇̜͉̬̯͓̜̬̰̫ͅ ̸́͏̗̗̙͙͖̗b̵̛̞̤̺̥̼͍̥̜̠̀̕̕a̵̶̛̺͍̙͕̪̙̗͍̣͓͔͖̜͖̤̞͠s̛͙̹̞̰̣̱̹̘̼̲̀ͅe̛̻̼̭̦̥̰͚͓̤̺͔̲̩̤͇͟͠͞͞ḑ̷̤̹͙̯̥̣̼̬͍̞̗̥͖́̀͡ ̵̧̳̱̤͈̹͉̤̜͍̘̕a̵̸̕҉̻̲̫̙̗̗̜͙̩̫̰͖̦͖́c̸̢̼̼̹͘͟ç̢̞̮̖͙̥̩̣̬̲̟̯̟̞͡͝ͅͅu͏̷̟̥̞̗͓̬͚̫̰̝͇̪̼̱̝͢ͅś̸̵̗̖̠̫͕͇̖͉͙̩̳̫̱̰͈̣͜͡a̧͙̥̘̻t̛̪̪̱̘̪̤͕̀͟͟i̸̛̗̺̖͇͈͍̳̼͟ó̵̷̤̪̮̩̣̮̟̤̜͈̤͘ņ̯̫̯̜̙̼̪̞̻s͇͈̻̣̫̣̬̰̗̯̮͇͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̵̛̜̘͍̼̲̪̩l͏̛̥̥͇̪͙̜̬̰̝̯͚̯͢ͅe͎̖͉͕̰̙̻͈͔̼̝͚̫̺̜̪̫͟͞t҉̛̟̠̥̝̭̫̻͇͓̲͓̤̹̟̹̖̭͟ͅ ̴̢̼͇̞̮̻̦̲̕͝b͡͏̯̥̗̟̺̟̳̝͙͇̘̠̙̭̜̀͡y̵̴͚̘̻̰͕͎̤̰̫̩̺̗̱̩̗̺̕͝͞ ̠̣͕̤̪̱̦͕̫̜͔͕͉͙̫̞͘͠ͅa̵̘̜̰͉͖͔̭̮̬̹̙̪̠͞ͅ ҉̴͏̺̰̟̠̹̟̩̤̜͉̜̫̟̩̣̙̯̦̮ș̢̜͖̼̯͎͚͖͖͞͡à̷̢҉͍̻͉͓͇͇̙̞̻̳̰̭̟͠ͅd̥͍̠̠̺̗̮͍̫̣̯͚͚̻͍̫̀͢ ̧̖̱̖̲̠̱̞͖͚̭̳̮̜͚̥̀̕͟ͅm̢͍̼͙͙̩̠̻̳͔͜͢ͅͅa͝҉͔̲̗̺̮̙͈̼̰̦͠ņ͢͏̳͚̗͇̮̯͉̺̟̮͈̗͇̥ ̧̨̨͎̜̥͚̤͕̮͇͔̞̭͔͍͡ͅͅi̸̢̛̬͕͉̣̹̲̹̙̪̠͖͈̮n̵̨̙̯͙̣̞̬͖͕͈̘͓͟͟͟ ͡҉͏̵̘̥̯̤̯̝̬̼͇̠̙̳̲̻̞̞ͅa͏̴̧̬͔̘͚̫͓̪̻̱̳̦̠́ͅ ̴̵̩̺̳͖̪̺͕͚̺͚̙́̕͟b͈̞̟̣̜́͢á̵̖̣͎̮͙͍̹̠̥̦͇̪̹̙̩̺̟̥̣͡ḑ̷̰͓̬̬̭̻̖̠̤̪̣̲̻̰̝̞͔ͅ ̵̡̧̬̞̯̲͓̞h̡͇̟͙͔̹͉̘̪̦̥̤̱̀͠a̶̡̧͔̮͕̟͉̲̬̬͇͇̞͖̹t̸̨̧̯̯̣̘͞͠.͏̢̲͉̥̭̥͚̗̠͔̯̱͚̠͙͘͟ͅ  
̷̢̭͖̝͉̜̼̟͈͈̝̫̘̼̞̫̱  
̵̶̭̤̫̠̝̭̯̞̤̞̟̱̠͟  
̶̢̧͕͙̝̲̤͙̭̕͞  
̢̧͙͙͉̣̗͎͍͖̗͟  
̛͈̰̼̥̥̦̬͚̦̟̝̦̜̞̯̼̕ͅͅì̷̷̡̭̣̫͙̟͝ ̢̢̠̺̭̣̲͕͓̭̝͓͎̩̤͕̠̻͍̼͟͡ ͚̣̲̫̻̣̬̠͈̻̯̞̣͎̘̠̱̀̀͢͞ ̵̨̛̫͖̻̥̕͜ ̸͜͏͈̘̫͔̼̦͖̬̥̣̻̜͖͉͓͎͙͉ ̸̛̯̖̖͈̟͓̩͖͉͞͝ ̷̖̤̗̹̰͈͚̜̪̳͇͉͍̬͓̭́͜͝͠ ͡҉̱̫̮͇͕̥͙̫̞͔̖͉ͅ ̴̡̘͓̬̦̩̖̲͈̳͉̟͡ ̨̛͚̪̭̠̪͍͇̖̲̩͉̯̣͓̥̣́͝ ̨̖͇̯̤̱̘̘͍͘͟͞͡ ̙̼̮͚̣̗͙̀͘͟͝ ͘͠҉̮̱̺͓͕̹̞͙̤̼̥ ͡҉̴̢͉̥̭͈̫̬̭̫̲̫̜̙͇̻͔͈̀ ̛̮̦̰̰̺̫̘̠̘̟̬́̀͜ ̡̛͉̣̻͎́ ̸̷̴̸̧̜͉͙̰͖̳̘̪͉̖̱͎̮̺̩̹̣ ͏̴҉̹̯̲̦͇͘ ̸̧͉̻̥̝̼͎͞ ̢̢̣̻̰̻̘̖̺̠̮̼͍ ͟҉̢̜̥̟͉̦͖̝̝̝̲̖͍͔̩̳̲̞ ̸̧҉̀͏̗̰͇̼̭̰̝̳ ̣̠͖̖̬͔̪̻͔̮̖̼͞͞͞ͅͅ ̡̢͙̼̪͇̝͇̮̞ ̵̼̗̖̜̗̪̰͇̬͕̗̮̀͘͟ ҉̵̢̣͍͎̖͕̝͕͙̟͖̼̰͝ ̧̨̗̠͓̼͇̕͟͞a͏̧̟̲͇̝̭͓̬͎ͅ ̷̠̱̪̮̘̼̬̳̙̣͇̝̠̗m̸̛͓̩̟̲̟̝͕͚͈̬̱͓͔̗̜̯͠ ̸҉̶̥̼̞̬͙̞̱̼͙̰̞̫̪̩̲̦͢͠ͅt҉̸̶͈͉̬̀͟h̶͏̻͓͍̬̲̳̙̞̙̺̞̭̜̠̜͡͡ͅͅe͡͏̧̺̘͖͔̗͓̯̗̺͔͢͝ ҉̵̲͇͙ͅp̸͎̙͓̹̜̭͚̙͉̤̦̀̕͡͝ŗ̶̯͎̣̣̩͓̼̜̀͟ó̡̧̡̘̻̱͙̻̬̙̝̪̱ ͎̙̯̫̯̖͙̺͔̼̻̩̺̲͞ ̀͘͘͏̮̩̹̮̮̮̙̩̼̯ ̴̧̬̜̝̜̝̤̹ ̛͕̜̙̦͇͈̦̲̘̬̹̖̪̤̻̮̀͞͠ ̢̛̜̟̝̙̹͙͉͜ ̶̴̳̖͉͓̫̞̹͎̗͔̲̺̫ ̛̬̝̦̭̞͡͝ ̴́͏̝̗͎̻̳͖̲̤͚͓͔̫̙̯̥̯̬͈ ̴̶͉̭͉͈͕̝̼͈͎̯̜͉͞͝ͅḑ̵͖͕̭ ̸̟̦̀ͅ ̸̸̨̣͎̗̩̗͙̞̟͚͖̝̻̗̣̥ ̨̪̲̲͓̺̬̙̺͓̹͝ ̩͎̠̰̹̘̙̖̗͕̺̪̪͘͜͡͠͞ ̸̶͎͔̼̖͎͖͉̖͈͖͚͓̳̟̹͈̠͇̳͘ ̷̢̨̛̛̻͙͉͇̻͇̩͖̞̩̥͙̗ͅ ̡̲͇̦̼͕̮̳̟͉͓̞̻͓͚͢͟͟ ̧̰̤̦̙̝̟̝̝̩̣͚͚̖́ ̴̧̢͉̗͍̗̖̜͙͖̝ ̧̝̠̼͇́͠ ̡̛͎̠̰͔͚̦͉͉̘̹̗̟͓̪͙̲̮͕͞ ̢̼͕̣̗͎̕͢ ̵̨̡͇̤͙͈͠ ͏̴̧̲̪͉͉̰̖͓̟̠̬̮̳̤͈̳̳̮̀͟ ̴̛̮͓̖̲̝͚̖͖̩̝̭̰̭̦̝ͅu̷̵̧̥̗͙̗͔̹̻̮̖̙͜c̛͖͔̜̭̖̤̪t̳̮̫͓̦̫͔̬̼̺̣̦̘́͜ ̢̺̜̲͙̫͍̪͍̳̼͉͇̫̀̕͘͢ͅo̙̱̞̻͙̺̜͍͓̞̭̲̦̺̙̦͓͜f̢̡̪̰̣̯͟͞͡ ̴̞͇̥̝̼̮͚̬̤̖̞͔͓̙͓̺̥͎̰̕͡b͏̗̘͎͙̖͉ ̣͎̬̮̥̞͝͝o̶̺̮͔̠͔̞̤̕͜ͅ ̯̤̖͚͘͝r̵͟͟͡҉̰͔̘̲͚͖̹̺̣̩̘̥̜̲ ̨̯̲̝̹̗̝̫͉̘͚̕͢͟ȩ̗̭̱͚̘͔̫̯̮͘ ́҉̶̧̥̣̪̪͍̘͍̰̬̥͎̫̦̣̠̜̖d͓̪̼̗̯͙̝̼̲̟́͠ ̛͙̮̺̰̘̭̟̗̤̳̻̻̘͔́o̶̶̷̟̗̖̝̭̣̝͉̲͕̱͠ͅ ͏͕̼̫͉͖̟̩̦̖̦̣͓̦͞͝m̷̶̬̺̹͙̞͟͜͝ ͏̶̧͎̻͈͎̫̤̳  
̶̵̶̻̗͎̪̜̰̬̜̰͕͈̦͖̀ ̟͚̠̝̦͈͙̳̘̜͈͍̙͎̗̪̻͔͞ ͞҉͚̘̺̼̲͚̻̰̭͚̤͚̟̜̳̦͠͠ͅ ̶̡̘̺͇͍͈̺͈̖̪̗͚͎̙̦̻̞ ̷̶̴̪̱̝̣̪̜͇̰ ̛͕̣͓̹̘̱̫̭̺̦̖̥̩̘̺̺̖́͘͝ ͏̴̸̣̪͈̟̱͕̪̟͎̰̱̠̠͟͡(̗̦͚̬͉̭͙͉͍͡h̷̪̹̯͇͈͙̭̬͞ò̵͘͏͈̭̜̗͖͙̗̖̼̲̹̼̹w̸͓͔̲̭͍̗̼͉͇̰̝̝̳̪̣͡é̡̧͍͍̫̟̥͉̲̖͕̖͡v͜҉̢͔̳͇̟͇͙̜̳͠r҉̨͏͙̤͓͕)̴̷̨̧̼̟̩͚͍̬̫̖̘͎̩̣̠͔̯̬͇  
̧̦̮̪̲͖́͞-̶̢͟͡͏̻̩̖̞̣̬͙͙̝  
̴̴͜҉̵͈̳̬̗͖̣͈̝̮̻̟̥̭͈͍  
͉̼̥̩̼͙̱̬͕̺̺̯̹̝͓͜͟  
͏̧̖̪͎̹͈̖̹̺̫̞̞̰̮̕͡ͅͅ  
̨͈̪͕͉̺̞̣́̀͢͢  
҉͖̱͙͎̥̥̜̹̣͚̻̺̫̰̻̝͎̀͜ͅ  
҉̰̹̹͙̟̭̬̭̱  
̴̛͓̖̜͖̦̦̥͖͇̯̣͘͘͡  
̵̯̲̖̪͉̘͉̮̰͇͎̱͚̳ͅ_̸͏̟̥̼͉͈̯̳͇̦͖̜͜ͅͅ_̢̡̖̼͇͖̪͎̕̕͝ͅ_̵̢̞̱̻̘̦̦̰͎̲̙̤̼͠_̞̞̫͎̪̀́͘̕_͡͏̴̢̖͓̺̦̬̟͍̜̭̩̤̞̭̮̱_̧͈̞͔͇̝̫͓̤͔̞̘̗̯͙͈̟͎̹͡_̵̭͖̞̥͙̮̬́͝_̶̢̛͔̻̤̮͓̪̖̦͚͍̣͈̹̙͓̹͢_́͘҉̘͕̰̬͎̕_̴̯͓̪͇͢͠͠_͏̭̙̗͓̙̼̞̳̹͍̬̞́_̨̡̮̤̜̥̬̗̙͇̰̬̤̗̮͖̜̺͢͝_̸̷̵̢̲͍͕̫͓̟̪͇̯̱͚͖̹̯̼_͏̸̧̝̦̻͈͜͝_͏̴̵̟͔̗̱͘_̡̛̺̗̺̰̝̤͙̱_̨͟҉̘̦̬̯͈̫̥͎͇͖͓̗͍̫͇_̨͎̟̮̞͔͎͓͚̥̟͉̠͉̭̟͟͡_̢̤͚͈͚̘̼͔_̢̣͓̠̹͍̳̱̻̰̱̰̰͢ͅ_̷̢̹̣̝̤̤̪͎̬̀͘͟_̗͖͚̱̼̰̻͔͎͉̀_̢̢̣̜̫͜ͅ  
̢̠̜̝̲͔̲̥̯͟͡C̴̢̩̺͕̞̮̳i̧҉͍̭̯̻͕͖̩̟̟̼̻̪̬͠͞ͅr̡͢҉̻̖̯̟̩̹̤͇̘͉́͠q̸̨̙̙̱̟̻̭̺͉͓̝͕͎̱̕l̸͏̬͚̫̱̥̝͖͖̱͇͔ ̸̢̤̹̗̺̹͚̺͙̠̩̲̹̩͇̬̹͈͡͞c̶̢͓͇̙̩̙̤͈̜h̶̡͟͏̬͈̺̺̮͓̗̝̦̞̟͓͔̳̭ͅa͏̣̜͖̥̭͓̦͙̻͙̤̼̯͈ͅp̛̟̗̳̟̣̯̰̲͓̼̘͍̹̰͘͜͜͞t̢̢̛̜͎̗̳̲̺͉͍̱̞̘͎̟̮͎̩͎͢ͅe̶͏͍̯̙͔̪̥r̙̖̦̫̱̹̘̱̙̝̥̟͘͜͠͡͠ ̵̞̗͔̜̣̘̬̘͝t̺̟̟̩͢͡͡ḩ̵̸̜̰̖͙̘̭̳r̶̵͉̱͚̹̤̼̦e̝̼̳̠̦̪̲̼̻̻͕͚̦̘̫̗̹̪͢͞e͎̭̜̗̱͙̘̥͜ͅ:̵̛̘̖̠͍̫̱̝̥̥̲̹̝̙̻̙͘͟ͅ ̡̩͕͓̥̥͎̮̗͓̖̝̱͕͈̬̻͢  
̶̥̗̱̘̩̫̟͓͍̜̥́͜͢͠ ̨̡҉̪͕̮͔͇̱̥̟̣̬̥̗̫͞͠ͅ ̵͞͏̯̬͎̥̩͙̠̯̜̭̬̞̫͢ ̧̡̛͔̲̪̼ͅ ̢́҉̨̰̣̝͚̳͓̙͚̫͇͎ͅ ̵̧̱̩͇͖͔̮̭͉̻̩͈͞͞͝ ̶̶̡͚̼̘͙ ͏̵́͏̥̲̙̮̹͇̪̞̺̖͔̺̱̟̬͚͕͇͟ ̨̩̪͙̯̙̖͇͔̝͘͢ ̴̴͖̺͇̳̣͙͞͝ ҉͔̠̼͎͉̞̳̭̲͙̮̣͔̞͉̟̠͇͜ ̸̨͖̜̪̱̦̦͇̬̦̰̫̗͘͝ͅ ͕͚̺͔̫̪͕̺͟͝ ̨̮͔̲̥͇͕͕̬̭̣̖͚̪͈̺͝ ̛͠҉̧͉̟̻͉̼̪̠̪̰̠ͅ ̧̺̙͓̻̺̖̲͔̪͠ ̡͏̗͎̳̙̪̦̘̺͇̤̤̫̮ͅͅ ͏̸̟͇̺͕̲̫̙̜̼͕̬̻̺͎͇ ̸̶̶̬̘̟̟̹͚̙̯͖̟͈̜͖̦̳̝̫͉͢ ̨͔̺̪̞̰̺̀̕ͅ ̶̷̟͇͙͎̫̩͈̠̲̯͇͓̼͟ ̷̡̜̘̲͙̙̹̠̪̪̯̰͇͚̘̘̻́͢ͅ ̬̙̱̬̙̜̹̞̩͖̗͕́͞ͅͅ ̸̞̠̪̳͖̬̜̞͍̗̟̺͇͖̕̕͠ ̴̰̲͎̱̟̺͔̺̞̙͕̱̬̟̮̪͔̀ ̷͈͔̜͙͕̞͢ͅ ̷̶̙͎̖͈̜̯̘͙̲͔̮͓̘̫̹͖͇͘͡ ̛͇̟̰͙͝ ̡̡̯̬̼͙̗̯͇́ ̶̼͙͓͔͓̥̕͟ ̨̢͠͏̥͓̼̘̩ ̷̖̘̫̼̟͉̗͠ ̢̻͚̩̯̬͔̼̣̣͞S͕̙̙͚͉̦̩̺̀͜͠p̨͏̘̝̲̗̝͓̬̱͔̠̘͖̗̬̻̟̗́o̶̶̧̨̤͎̠̰͚͍̱̩̭͓ͅí̲͔̬̜̱͘͠l̛͈͍̮͉̣̤̫͚̯͎̗̭̝̞͓̦̀e̸̢͙̻̰͕͍̭̲̞̬͓̼͠ͅr̵̸̜͍̰̹̤̭̱̳̤̳͡s̸̲̻̼̳̙̘͇̦̱͓͇̭͉͇̲̰̳͟͟;̡̡̺̮̜̝͕̝̠͉̙͓̞͙̗̘́̕  
̢̛̜͇͚̝̺̬͓̻̀̕ͅ  
҉̧̦̦̦̖͉̝̞̻̭͉̥͓͙͖̩͝  
̡̭͙̝͖̠̯̺̬̫̱̰̥͘  
͉̻̻̯͚̦͎̩̣̹̯̘̰̦̤̤̯̦͜͡͠͠-̴͖̬͙̫̜̤͙̞̺͎͍̯̣̳̀́  
̵͇͓̖̩͍͖̗̞̖͔̩̗̲̘̘͢͜  
̴̧̧̥̼̻̹̪̘̺̟͕̮̞̣̹̀ͅw̴̨̡̰̣͖̩̻͟h̠̖̙̤̬̪̯̘̤̹̝̕͡ͅe̶͇̤͎̬̝͙͉͕͎̮͕̲͉̭̺͜ͅn͢҉̷͏̲̟̜̩͕͔̠̪̥̹̳͕̺ ̢̛̹͚̹̝͉̰̣͍̟̣͎̺͇̩͖̜͙ì̸̖̬̳̜̠͈̫ͅ ̕҉͠͏̭̭͉̟̟̫͔̺͇͓̗̰͖̰̣͓͙̰f̧̺͙̲͈̹̹̀͜͜͜í̷̝̹̞̯͖̭̖̖̟̙̪͖͇͟͜r͠͏͞͏̱͇͓͖̩̣̬s̴̨̙̰̫͈͓̮̟̖͎͚̝̀͟͠t̴̛̮͉̟͎̫̦̣̯́͘͠ ҉̧͙̻̬̩̠̰͔̼͘ś̷͚͓̹̗ţ̵̶̺̥̪̣́á̮͕̘̜̳̠̞̜̖͖̻̰̫̰͙̭͉̳̕͡ͅr҉̫̻͕̺̫͎̠̹͙͕̮̼͉͙͟ͅţ̶̝͇̬̘̬̜̣̜͔̗̮̀́e҉̵̢̩̳̗̮̲͎̪̼̩̮̥̼̫́ͅḏ̸͍͉̭̭͍̰̤̦̘̩̬̖̩̮͍͘͟͡͝ͅ ̢̖̭͈̹̮͢e̵̻̯̯̫̰̞̼̦͚͍̞̙̲̕͟͝ͅx̷̢̰̝̦̠̩̱̹̙̪̩͢͢ì̡̜̩͙̣̩̣͔̲͚̣ͅs̢̡̼̯̜̩͙̻̭̝̬̯̙̹̭͉̯̬̲t̨̡͚̗̭̩͕̜̺͙̜̦͚͇̝̳̫̳̜͡ͅͅi̡͍̫̯͈͈̮̘͓̪̦͓͜n̴̛̕͏̝͎̮̮ǵ̵̛͕͙̩̭͔̤̗̱̘̝̝̦̜̝̕͢ ̢͏̭͕̘̪̗͟͝ị̸̻͕͖͈̩͘ ͏̛̥͉̳̺̼̬͟͞e̶̴̷̤̻̪͉͔̺̰͍̠̫͖͓͍̭ͅm̢̛̥̦̦̠͎̲̤͉̯͇͖̪̜͙̱̹̜̬̕͜b̵͖̠̻͙͔̻̼̭̯̻̫̀̕o̷̬̯̫̹̥̼͉͙͓͔̕͞d̷̛̯͈̪̯̮̣̀͞i̷̩͕̣̠͍̮̙̰̤̝̙͓̟̟̠̬͚͘͘͢é̵̵͎̘̫̖̯̣̤͞d̶̠̟͈͇͎̞͉͓̀͠ ̨̛͖̹̜̟͇̦́t́҉̛̟̱̗̳͎͇͎͖̲̖̱̫̩͜͝ͅh̸̻̩̟͖̲̩̳͕͖̺̞̱̜̜̫͖̪e̷̟̗̣̙̦͍̱͓̕ ̴̙̻͈̰̩̤͙͉͍͇͈͉̘̝͖̕ͅí̷̥̤̫̣͔̪̻̤̥̫̤͇́͢ͅņ̙̳̥̹̬ͅṯ̛̞͓͎͔̬̘̬̭͕́͠ę̷̝͉͔̳̳̖̦̞̀͡͡ŕ҉̯̦͉̗̣̞̠̱̱̦̫͉͇̞̮͉͉̳̬͢͢e͉̬̤̯̰̗͎̜̼̝̦̠̮̕͟͠ś̶̷̢̛̞̩̬̲͚̦t̶͉̠͓̤̤̳̼̱͞ ̴̡͔͚͔͇͈̜̺̯͎͓̘͓̪̪̯̱̤ͅo̶̸̲͖̝̦͍͢f̷͖͕̠̫̰͇̥͔͙͇̭̪̪͉͓̻͝͠͞ ̵̕҉͓̫̙͙͚͍͈̠ͅm̛͏͚̩̩̗̞y͎̳͚̝̩͖͈͎̖̮͔̙̗̻̰͔͚̖͟͢ ̴́̀͢͏̯̥͚͕̰̖̗̦̣̥̩̤̱͎̞͓̥̼g̢̺̹̮̥͎̮̘͎͈̪͚̩̱̼͖̻͔̦͢ͅo̻̲̩͉̳͇̮̤̮̮̲͉̯̼̜͘͘͝ḓ̡̹̝̠̙̩͙̘̗ ͟͏̡͏̧͖̯̮̩͇̰͉̜͕̙̯̻̰̮̘͔a̰͕͙̜̱̥̱̠͔̟͍̳̭̭͙̙̠̥̠͜͞n̮͉̟̯̥͓̠̦͚̮͔̺̤̗͉͚̤͇͞͡d̡͉̪̰͍͙̠̞̭̪́̀ ̶̨̰͉͔͓͎̘̳̯̗̤̝̫̙͎͙̙̟͎͘͠ͅh̨̧̛̖̝͈̮̻͈̤̫ͅę͜͟͏̗̩͔̗̯̮͚̘͔̭͢r̶͈̗̭̜͎͍͖̯̞̖̳͢ ҉̶̙̻̺͍̩͖̰̫̖͙̭̝̣͓̝̬ͅͅt̨̪͔͖̲͓̗̗̪̙̜͇̤͔̱̙̫͜h̡͢͟҉̣̙͇̬͓̪ͅó̧̱̗̜̲̱̖̗̙̙ͅu͓̞̭̹͞͝g͙̻͍͙̗͖̪̤͓̖̥̹̕h̠͔͇̙̭̭͘ţ͠͏̝͓͚̹̠̯̖̰̮͕̘͙͇͙ͅͅs̴͏̜̫͍̝͙͙̬͕ ̨̛̲̪̱̮͇̟̫̺̦͙̘̜͟a̰̗͖̼̼͙̬͎̝͍͕̝̦͔̲̻͘̕͡ͅn̶̸͓̮̟̥̟̩̖̩̞͢͞d̯͙̦̬̭͕̰̹̙͟ ͙̗̮͕͍̙̣̠͈̰͢ͅm̨͜҉̣͍͇̫̞̪͙͓̤̜͉̕a̸̜̱͚̱̪͙̪͉̜͙͇͓̲͓͢͡n̵͏͙̖̝͉̭̳̳̪̖̠̠͓̳̣i͏҉̷̧̗͖̗͇̫͕̻͕̖̱̩͎̭̪̹̱f̸̵̧͎̯̺ͅͅe̷̵̡̮̯̣͓̩̙̕s̡̧̢̛̫̯̘̥͉͇̱͚̫̯̮͔̗̳̱t̛̛͓̭̞͉̲͎͖̣̟̰̗e̷͟͏̴̡͇̟̩̱͎̖̪̣̗̪͎̣͈̼̼̺d̡̧͕͙̜̬̬̫̣͓̪͖́͜ͅͅ ̷̞̰̭̘̠͈̠͈̦̠̜̗̣̝́͡m̨͈͖͖͖̱͔͖̟͖̟̜̝̭̺̩̣͘̕̕y҉̛͈͈̥̫͘͘s̴̨͙͈̰̤͓͔͈͍͎̣͚̙̙̟̤͍͔̕͢ͅͅe̵͏̝̖̦̝̬̳̪̼̤͚̤̫̘̙͕́̕ĺ̷̮̹͎̬̠͉̼͕͈͉͜f̧͎̪͓̳͖̪͍̀ͅ ̵̤̹̬̻͉̰͍͙̹̟͔͇̦̪̻͉͡͞ͅį̷̶͔͈̳̯̳͓̘̼̻͈̣̲͉͕̼̝͈ͅn̴҉̷̬͔̝͕͙ ̛͠҉̸͔̣͎̯̖͍͇͉̠̀f̴̵̴͙͈͙͖͎̬̳̝̙͎̲̮̩̹̼̀ŗ̺̻͇̮͔͖͎̩͎̬̝͉̘̜̻͚̫̘́ó̷̸̭̠͚̙̠͉͕͚͜͡n̻̗̰̲̫͚͔͟͞͠t̸̸̷̢̛͕͇̻͚̰̭̜ͅ ̛͔̟̘̭͍̩͖͎̟̖͚̞̲͖̹̀͜ò͎̮̜̭̞͍̭͉̱̫̮̰̞̙̩̤̖̞͘f̨̢̰͕̜̩̖̙͔̻̦̻͎̦̗ ̀͝҉̥̙̲̮h͏̷̩͍̘͚̯̜͈̮̺̜͎̤̻̙̯̜̭͘͜͠ȩ̵̜͓̫̘̗͇̱͔͔͕̕r̵̵̡̨̧͓̬͓̫̯͇.̸̢͖̰̹̲͙̝̬̮̻͇͎̫̹̜̦͚̯̰̝ ̸̺̜̗̯̭̲̫̱̀h̨̛̪͍̺̖̩̙͖̲͙̗͙̗͔̩ͅę̸̙͕̣̪̹̝͙͕̥̟̖̀̀͞y̴̡̢͓̟̺̪͍͖̳̣͖a̶̕̕҉̵͇͔̰̮̫͙̹͍̝̲͉͖͖͖ ̴̼͕͖̦̭̠̰̮̺͇̘͙̘̲̼̀ͅͅd͏҉͎͈̖̹̤̘̠̘̝̳̣ͅw̨̛̪̜̼̘̰̰͎̰̥̮ ̶̡͚̜̩̰̤͈̪̟̮̩̳͜͝į͔̙̗͈̲̱̭̺͚͓͚̝̜͚̥̩̱͚̩͢͝͡ ̵̛̟̺͚̳͚͇͓̺͈̭̀ͅs̢͎̫̩͖̖̠̹̞̜̱͉͚͈̞̭̬̟̭͡à̷̵͖̬̯̪̲̠̟̝͍̬̟̞̟̰͡i̷҉̧̟̯̤̙̝̲͇͠d͖͉̟̗̯͍͙̙̲̬̻̺̹̲̤͍̤͍̀,̸̛̞̖̣̻̩̳͞ ̸̺͉̳̝̱̦̝̬̟̮͔̀͞n̵̵͏̱̣̳̩̺̗̮͕̖̹̣̝̖̘̞̝̝ͅa̴̳͕͕̗̘̜̳̭͓͢m̶̨҉̜̖̝̘͈̰͉̖̣̭͚͍̮̲̯̙ę̷̙̦͓͚͜͢'̗̫̗̣́ͅs҉͍̹͍̺̫̮̀͠ ̥̲͙̮̬̭̫̮̟̩̞͓̀̕͜͟n̴̶̨̤̣̠̪̥̙̜͉͈̠̜͎̦̝̦̫͉a̗͔̘͔̤̰͕̠͔̖͎̼̩̪̠̞̕ͅͅd̷̷͎̜̹̩́ì̙͙̹̰̼̟̜̠̩͘͠n̴͍̯̻̪̞̼̠͇̼͟ͅe̶̛̻̱̳̟,̻̜̮̬͍́ ̨̤͉̞̭̮͎͎̱̜̱̲̲̟̘̠̕͜o͟͟͠҉͍̺̺̜̰̟̘̜̮̫̠̯͙̤̝n҉҉̸̸̩͎͔͞l̙̪̱͈̪̰͉͉͜͟ỳ̺͓̭̗̬̥̩̯̺̹͕̦̻͓͈̘̯̱͇͠ ̴̴̻̰̱͕̜͉̞̲̳̕͝͡t̵̸̖̘̯̹͇͖̜̰͓̯̦̣͍̯̹̠̤́h̨̧͇͇̳̯͡e̶̼̟͈̠̬̹ń̢̰̱̥͚͇̩̪̺̗̝̭͟͝ ̪̪̟̤̜̮̠͍̪͖̜̀͘͝į̸̢͈͕̟̱͍̭̮͙̩͚̖̗̻̜̪̠͈͢ ̵҉̖̬͍̺̳̪͉̺̩̰̱̣̦̣̥̭͠ͅͅd̸̴͖̥͖͖̺̦̘̙̦͙̳̦̮̥̝̩̠͎̣͡i̶̡͎͉͍̫ͅd̲̣͖͎͍͎̰͉͔͖̫͚͈̗̫͔͟͞͡n̛̕͏̮̘͇̘̩̮̮͍̲̮̟'̛͘͏̡͈̤̯͇̳̺̝͙͕̣̲̗̰̲̞͍t̢͇̥͉̞͚̻̝̺̻̘̮͎͡ ̡̻̼̪̙̻͓̹͚̣̲̲̠̣̙͕̱͚̀͡͠ͅh͕͍̗͇̩͉̩̼̳͖͈̳̯͓̯̩͓̕͡͞ą̙̙̱̥͙͓͎̪̬̭̫̦͙̜͓̞͜v̢̧̪̲̣̬̗͔͈͓̠̫̙̝̗͈͟͝ę͈̼̻̪͖̣̞̺̥̩̬̮̘̥̥̕͜͜͢ͅ ̵̧̩̫̙̟͖̝̞̤̱̣a͞͞͏̷͉̘̠͈̞͚̘͙͈͎̭͙̙̫ ̷̛̬̞̼͓̣͓̭͖͙̳̣͕̭͖͎͘͡ͅl͕̦̖͖̙̗͓̱̦̼̯̥̼̝̼̥̺̪̀͢͟͠ͅą̸̶͚̺͇̭͠͝s̵̫̼̟͔̰̥̮͇̦̮̲͘͢͞͝ͅt̸̷̝̤͔̼̮̘͎̻̪͓̮̤̝͖͔̪͙͚ ̖̳̞̫̕̕͝n̸̢̢̜̼̩̪͖̗̙͇̺̜̖̺̹̻̲̻͜ͅà̴̶̡̛̘̩̰̮ḿ̢͚̖̖̲̦͍̖̳̠͉ͅe̵̗̝͍͚̭͈̬̟̣̳̮̞̹̤̳̖̟̕ ̳̲̮̻̲̼͓̻͉̱̼̩͚͇͕̼͈̮͞͞ͅb̡̥͉̩̪̮̯̦̪̪̣̘͔͉͕͔̝͈ḙ̵̴͇͈̲̝̝̣͈͖̠̦̫̯̦̮̼̻͝c̸҉̝͈͔͓̮̰̖̝̙̖͘͜á̯̤̼̞̻͎͕̘͔̠̦̺̕͟ͅu̴̶̥̮̪̤͔͕̭̰̼͉s̷̷̛̼̺͚͇͎͍͎̯̹̞̦̱͍̖͕̭͢ͅe͝͡҉̵̞͖̰̠̲̘̣̳̲͙ͅ ̻̣̙̲̯͖̮̙͖͚͉̗̖͉̩͜ͅì̸͜҉̦̖̲͓̪̝͍̥̫̫̹̘͔̞̙ͅt̶̸̵̥̺̱̮͓͎͍͇͎͙̱̗̩͈̩̜͝ͅ ̱̰̺͚͕͎̼̙͙̕͝w̵̫̰̼͚͕͍̠̭̦͈͚̜̯̥̮͘̕ͅa̷̡̬̫̠̝͠s̨̛̗̟͕̟̘̘̜͙̯̫͔̀͝ͅn҉̢̳̥̫̝̩'̢̺̭̫̟̩̫̪͈͖̼̮͈͡͞ͅt̬̲̩̖̣̲̼̙̞̮͍͇̖̙̩̦́͟͠ ̡̫͇̘̠͙̟̥̫̞̹̤̼͈͓̬͎͘͢ţ̵̵̱̫̟̠̺̹̕͢i̩͓͈̱͎̬̠̼̖̩̰̦̲͚̩̭͙̰̕͝͡m̶̩͙̳̰̲̲̰̩e̡͚͎̻͔̤̗̖͔͎͔͙̱͕̖̮̘̲͚͡ ̸̸̙͖͓͜͝f̧̻̭͎̙̘̰̫͙̬̟̝̀̕̕o҉҉͇̳̟̺͇͎̦ͅr҉̶̹̪̝͡ͅ ̨̨̺͔͚͖̟̘͍̙̪̞̤͘͘ͅͅt̗̖̩͉͕̯̝̞̥̠̱͕̩̗̠̩͎̖̕̕͞͞ͅh̷͎̩̜̠͓á̸̛̤̳̭̼̟͖̫͖̮̲̩͕͢͟ͅͅţ̭͖̞̤͇͇̘̖̦̳͔̖̪͈̳͢͡ ̴̨̺̳̺͍̺̜͓̼̺̗͔̥̝̼͓͇̭́̕y͏̷̵̡҉̮̺̫͙͈̞̩̘̼̯͍̫e҉̶̧̧̘̲͚̫͙͚͇̼͙̖̕t̶͏̩̟̟͇̦̗̘̻̘͚͚̖̯͍̳̤̳̲͘.̶̸̲̝͖̱͈̩̯̳͈̩͙͎͓̣̣̞̕͟ͅ ̴͔͈̣͈́͡͞  
́͠͏̧̲̣͎̼̺̙̖̤͓̕ù̴̷̠͎̝̖̤̞͕̘̯̰͈̺̝̹̦̲l̸̷̴̬͇͇̗̤͍t͔̖͇̙̗̲͇̘̀͝i͜҉̶̤̫̗͇̬̳͞m̡͚̝̣͎͜͟͡ͅą̨̧̤̖̯͎̲͓̥̜̝̱̬̩̮̳t̶̴̸̡͙̣͚̤̱̯͚͖͢è̞̳͔̠̩͢l̖̟̜̪͖̳̦̱͚̫̣̜͙̟͎͙̀̕͘͢͠ͅy̕͏̼̼͎̜͇̝͍̰̹̱̱͉̰̗͔̭͔͈͢ ͠҉̵̧̺͔͔̜i̷̸̵͓̮͚̠͖̬̹̠̦͔̘̟͕̼͙̺̗̻͡ ̴̵̩̞̮̯͙͇̺̥̝̪̗͈̣͡ͅw̸͓͎̩̙̝͙̮̻͙̪̟͠a̴̴̫̻̻͍̥̘̞s̛̭͇̝̱̳͍̭͕͙̦̳̀ ͏̴̧̢̺̰̪̤̰̯͖͙͖̣̪͔̕ͅͅn̡̮͓͓͍͚͉̮̗̯͓̣̣̰̺͞͞à̸͟͡҉͎̖̜̟̝͈d̢̰̥̬͎͚̘̻͙̗͚̖̖̕ͅi̶͞͏̴̡̗̺̗̗̟͙̼̫̖̫̞͈͎n̷̛̺͎̮͖̭̖̪̼ͅé̵̗̲̟̣͜ ̨̕҉̜͉̗̲̳̼̗̤̲͕̥̬̲a͖̞̦͓̤̼̙͚͘͞͡͡n̕҉͍͖͔͈̰̝͖̫̱̣̘̞͔̖͖̞͕d̶҉̘͖̺̮̜͈͠ ͇̥̹̲̙̤̪͚͙̝̣̦̼̩̜͔͜͠͡ͅs̘͎̰̼̟̫̪͖͇̦͖̖̞̯̻̹͙͜͡h̷̢͎͈̻̫̱̙̫̥̳̖͎̻̠̭̪̦͢͝e͏̷͖̪͚̘͔͖̗̲̟̲̗͎̙̝̀͜ ̶̨̛̣̼̗͙͙̮̘͎̕ͅͅw̯͚͍͉̠̝̣̺͕͖̪̬͙̥͢ͅa̖͓͎̫̼̩̻̦̳̦̮͇͟s̨̝͙̻̤͉̣ ̶̧̞̲̥̝͕͚̣̯̱̳̩͢͜͠ḑ̛̭͎̥̥̖̰̤͍̫͙̪͍̗̻̫̯͔́ͅw̕҉͢҉̜̬̦͚̘͔ ̢̹̮̣̙̮̲̹̹̘̳̀a̷̟̹̹͖̮ņ̵̪̭͓͟͡d̡͚͍͔̪̟̙͖̯͡ ̸̷̺̘̖̗͖͖t͏̣̗̣̻̺̯̟̬h̢̛̕͏̖̘̪̻͇̜͓̫̬͓ͅà̴̵̷̢̩̱̯̜̞͉̘̯̼̰͈̳͍̳͔t͘͏̵̶͓̟͈̺̥̮͕͙ ̢͢͏̛̺̮̯̝̯̦̮͎͍̤̗͍̜̫͎̘w͎̝͚͈͓̦̪͉̗̙̲̫̫̰̟͎̳͜á̢̰̯̜̩̜͘͞s̡̩̖̘̤̹̕͞͠ ̶̢͕̣͙̖̺͕̪̜͕̼̫̗̦̼̞̥͜ṭ̴̢̗̹̠͈̰̼̲͙̬͙̱̪̹̙ḩ̛͚̟̰̰͓̥̤͈͔̺͓̱͚̰̀͟ͅͅe̴̡̢̤͔̹̲̱̲̳̯̬̭̩̜̕ͅ ̶̢̼̱͉̣̦̯͔̘̗̠̪̬̰̤̭̲e̸̡̪̭̣̰̦̹̰͜͟x̸̴͚̞̺͔̦͚̭̯̫̠͈̬̪̲̝̯͘̕t̟̩͍̼̥̹̭̘̯̦̣̯͈̠̀̀ͅͅͅę̡̨̻̙̠̥͕͉̳̗͓͡ǹ̸̪͉͈̩̥͍̣̼͉͜͝ṱ͉͈̩͍̰̤̯̗̘̯̬͈̤̫͚̝͓͝͠ ̴̨̛̹̙͚̗̳̭͔̘̤͖͔̼̥̥̙͘ǫ̵͉̱̜̯̳͍͚̣̣̣̰f̛͚͚̩̮̟̙͙̬̫͝ ̶͏̡̛̥͖̯͚̝͍͙̜͓͔͖͙̦̜̖͎ͅm̷̸̸̭̼̠̥͈͚͔y͞͞҉͎̹̫͟ ҉̹͍̜͓̫͎́ȩ̢̧̛̲̼͎̘̜͇̣̬̤̙̭̘x̨̯̬̘̭̯͔̝̟̫͔̙̣̰͘͠ͅi͏̴̩̭̪͙͇̹͙̼̕s̴̵̩̖̙̘̤̟͕̻̝̤̱̜͚͎̖̹̜̕͟͞ͅṱ̡̡̢̨̩̫̦͓͔̹̰͜è̸̶̻̫̘̟͎͎̣̳̭͇͟͝ͅn̶̪̱̘͖̞̫̻̳͡c̷̛͙̭̤̬͙̗͟͞ȩ̛͈̠̙̤͙̫͜ͅ.̴̨̳̳̝̠̪̪̫̗̞̺͉̹̣͘͟ ̧͟͏̩̦̼͔̖̮i̵̧̛̬̰̝̝̖̳̯͎̪̼̜̗̜̻̯̝ ̵͠͏͍͉̝̯̻̱̼̱̰͈̺͚͔̜̪̞̥̭̝a̵̡͟͢҉̖̺̮͉̠͍̦̗ͅs̸̷̡̯̫̜͓k͔̙̹̜̮͈̭̲͓̦͎͜e̵͍̥̯̤̪̥͓͓ͅd̴͏̙̠̰̤͈͕͎̯̖̺ ̱͖͕̥̟̦̣̗̰͓͉͎̞̼̳̼̭̱̫͞͞h̸̛͚͔͍͍͚̻͍̕͝e̷̵̢̱͔̯̮̳͔̱͖̘ͅͅr̷̦͓̬̩͡ ̢̧̨̭̺̼̻̙̭̯̥͘͠w̡̯͉̙̖͖̪͓̻̲̟̯̯͞h̡͈̮̫̪̰͉̱̣ͅa̛͍̰̞͉͘t̴̛͢͞҉̗͖̼̼̝̮͙̗̠͓̞̞̠͔̱ͅ'̢̱̬̺̮̖̘͓̯͙̝̤̮̺̹̕ͅs͚̙͕̜̟̥͎̭̬̙̝̰̬̖̼̹̞̕͘͟ͅ ̨̟̼̯͇͖̪̮̬͕̣͈̣̞͉͉̺̼̕͜ú̳͇͉͕̫̦̫̫̰̟ͅp̴̩̹̱̲̭͍̗͉̼͎͇͕͘͟ͅ ̷͏̖̮̼̬͓̯͇͈͉à͇͔͉̳͉̻̬̜̳̗̬͟͝͞ń҉̙̩͈̠̬̞́͜͞ͅd̵̫̩͙̖͖̬͎̘̱̗̖̜͚͉̻̜̀͘ͅͅ ̵̵̩̩̦͕̦́́s̸̫̠͔̝̜͚͍͢͠h̀҉͏̱̮̤͇̺̼̰̱̯̺e̸͉̜͍̗ ̢̝̦̭̯̣́́̕s̨̡͚̜͉̯̝̞̣̩͝a̸̬̰̼̝̰̙̪̲̺͎͖̘̘̟͎͟͝ͅi͏̛̮̗̰͓̦̘̙̹̻̳̥͖̩͢d̸̀҉̢̫̼͉͕͈̰͍͍͠ ̷̨͔͖̩͍͙̣̺͜ǹ̻̹͔̖̮̝̳̟̠͖͕̰̳̝̗̞̜͢͟͜͞o̷̦̮̹̹̹̜̜̻͚̺̣͓̟̭͈̗̳t̶̨̘̠̘̟̤̪̹̜͔͓͖̫͎̮́͡͝ ҉̢̟͍͉̟̲̫̕͠͡m͏̞̫̥̟̩̪ų̨̭̱̱͚̝̦͎̞͈̪̭̥͝c͏̸̫̲̟̪̠̥̼̺h̸̨̡̩͙̻̹̻̰̗̙̀.̶̙̝̼̼͇͓̲̖̞̫̳͙͈̱͎͝͡ ̸̝͖̭̩́͝i̷҉̷̯͕̘͇̼̮̯̱̕ ̢̯̟̣̹͙͖́͜ą̷̶̢̹̗̹̦͎̯͕̮͇s̸̴͢͠҉̰̰̲̣k̶̨͜͟҉͖̺̼̺̻ę̴̷̹̣͙̟̭̜͇̩͉̳̤̘͕̥͕͇̯͇d҉̧̙̱̦̳̯͇̮͍̲̮̮̬̳͖́ ̧̨̛̦̲̻͘h̷͈͎̹͎̙͔̝̖̟͘͠e̵̘͖͖̳̺͕̼͈̼̮̥̟̖̣̘͠ͅr̕͏̬̼̪̲̱̫̲̥ ̴̨̠̞͔̼͚̹̗̬̘̰̲͚̖͜h̼̖͎̝̤́͜͡͞͝ó͕̪̼̟̗̦̰͢͠w҉̭̠̪̪̻͈͕̬͕̮͉̬̕͠͞'̨̨͞҉̹͔̬̩̖̹͈͉͖͔̹͠ͅş̸̟͔͓̫̝̠̺̞̤̣̣͞ ̵̶̷̨̝̦͇͔̱͇̥̯͞i͔̮̲̹̫̙͘t̡̛̼̩̼͉̯̺̩̠͜ͅ ̧͓͈̮͍͙̙̘̖̗̞̦̱̠̥̭̻h̶̡͏̟̘̖̦̣̠̘͓͢à͏҉̸̨̯͙͍̼̟̗̮̝̗̱̫̩̠͚͔͍n̸̛̫̯͔̲̮̠͎̟͎̜̘̺͙̱͔̜͜͜g͏̣͙̹̹͓̩̺͙̲͕į̶̷͈̤̭̳̮̜̜̞̩̫̭̖͇̻͔̪̯ṉ̶̸̖̳͎̭̰̘͔̩͡ͅͅģ̙͓͇̹̜̲͚͎̩͉͉̩͈͓̻͙̘́͘ ̵̧̩̖̺̹̦̰̖̦̜͓̟̥͉̥̲̞̤̣a̗͔̪̳͎͢͡n̵̜̹̠̦̹̕͟͢͞ḑ̶̱̼̼͎ ̸̡̥̗̼̘̗͉̻̯̣̘͕̤͡ͅs̀͏̵̢̪̫̰̦̮h̡͍͈͕̙̬̱̝̟̞̺͓̲̻͘͡è̫̭̤̜̬̱͖̩͔́ ̧̨̜̰̙̘̰̹͚̬̪̘̖̪̰͖̪͎̣͜͠s̠̙̖̝̱͍͖̖̙̬͙͙͍̠̙̪͔̪͘͞a̵̶̧̖̳͎͔̙̥̺͇̼̥͇͍͔i̡͔̟̖͚͉͓̤̟̤̻̼̺̘̗̪͘͠͡d̶̸͎͕̺͇͈̳̲̬̬̭͈͈̱͎̯͔͖̕ ̢͟͠͏̖̝̩̪̯͚̰̝̩̜͖̞̘t̷̙̝̹̣͙̬͝o̴̶̧̫̪̠̝̲͉̙ ͏̝͖̮̗̻͓̦̀͞t̛̬͓͇̦̙̼̱̪͚̱̪̯̘̙̭̪̀h̸͎̥͇͈͟e͏̛͚͙̭̘͍̖̭̹͜ ̲̞̜̯͍̜̠͎̰̜͠͠ş̧͏̠͙̲̪̦̗̳̦̹̙̦i̸̛͈͇̮̻͎̠͚̖̩̲̩̕͘d͢͏̙̖̮̳͔͉̱̼̙͙͙̟̪̗̳͠ͅe̵̛̘͈̬̯̜͘͠ ͏̨̛͚̯͈̮̺͙̬͇͖̭ͅo̢̢̡̹̤͈͝n̢͕̮̞͓̖̺͖̼͜͝ͅ ̢҉̡̝̻͚̹̺͔t̴̢̧͙̤̬͈̬͍̟̫̬̣ͅͅh͏̠̬̼̯̫̳̹̯͇̩̲̣̬̺͟͢e̛̛̙͈͖̤̦̠̭̜ ̩̠͎̞͖͚͔̟͕̠́͟͡l̷͢͜͏̜͕͕̫̞̮̦̩̮͎̙̖̩̰e̸̛̱̮͇̦̙͙͍̼̳͉̩̺̗̼͠ͅͅͅf̸͚̫̟̰͙̲̦̝͙̥̯͖t̡͓̯̬̮̰͚̦̝́̕͢͢.̛͍̞͕̻̥͚̩̼͈̙̭̬̮͘͜͞ ̧̨̛̛̮̹̗͙̩̪̠̻̠͕͟ẃ̵̱̖̩̹̮͔̪̭́́̕e̞̙̳̲̩͎̭͞͞ ̧̖͙̯̣̞̬̫̝̞̦͢b͉͖̰̥͔̦͔̥͝ǫ͇̘͚̱͓̪̲̱̩̗̺͢͢͡ţ̶̢̘̳̗̖͔̖̗̟̼͍̞̙̫͍́ͅh̢̟̥̠̦̳̝̲̘͓̘͍̩̞͉͢ ̶̼̝̲̼̪̗̜̯͢͢l͕͇͕̗͇̪̱͘͠ͅà̡̰̞̬̤̫̞̫̖̣͇̟̦͕͢͡ṷ̢̡̰̻̙̼̲̹̯͔̪̖̬̦͔̲̀͢g̶̨͙̟͉̩͈̬͙͔̺̩̲̩̯͕h̵̛̹͙̘͉̬̹͉̕é̤̟̪͖̙̮̪̹̰̺̺̲͓̮d̨̧̖̲̪͚͉̰͉̠͉͎̦̺͇̖̩̺ͅ,̵̦͚̠̼̗̟̰̘͓́͟ ̸̵̛̬͚̤̰̫̠̼͔̫̜̥͈̮̮̱̤̝̯͞m̴̖̬͙̯̟͎̙͉̙̼͓̪̟̺̘̹͙̕͜ͅe͞͏̛͎͉̞̪̼̪̼͜ ̵̧̜̯̻͎̹̣̮̙̲̫̺͕̲̺͕̭͓́͞n̵̨͏̡̯̞̟͟o̶̧͟͏̞̯̜͕̺̲̤͓̠͉͎t̸̳͈̜͔̳͕͎̮̪͕̺͜͝͠ ̵̢͢҉͇͓̜̖͚͓̙̥͕͔͕̮͚̱͇̣̘̗ͅb̵̤͈̤̯̥́ȩ̛̱̜͕̬͇̦̱̣̯͟͡i̶̹̦̲͓̩̮͍̬̙͈͇͍͘͜ͅn̨҉͕̖̪̯g̸̛̱̬̹̪̭̹͙̤̘͠ ̧̧̦̲͉̪̪͙̥̝͉̭̪̠̰̯̜̱́̕s̶̞̘̟̯͎͍̘̕͘u̵̵̥̹̺̤̩̦̝̥͝ṟ̶̗̲̫̗̤̫̲̘̟̻̬̼ͅę̵̢̛̟̺͍̱̮͚ ̴̶͏̟̘͉̙̱͚̖̦͚͇̪̺w̢̢̤̳̬̖͞ḩ̶̢̢͔̬̙̼̻̦͍͎̰̭͔͍͕͡ą̼͉̝̝̕͘͡͡t̷̡̝̫̳͍̖̖̯̦̩̕͡͠ ̵̡̺̲̟͍͕͔͎͔̥̬͉͎̗͍̻͔̘͘͟ͅt̶͓̙̞̣̖̞̪̟͎̗̱͉͙́͜h̰̠̹̩͇̲͍̦͕̳͈͈͟͢͜͡a̶̗̯͔̬͚̯̠̣͕͙̳͢t̴̴̻̥̬͇̹̬̺̠͠ ҉̷̩̬͉̞̘̝̤̥̗̭̟͎̞͈̜͉̻̫̤̕m̸̕͢͟͏̤̭͙̼͈̰̟̯͍̯͍̣̳͓͇e̷͡҉̴̛̘̦̲̱a̢̖͉̖̘̣͖͓͈̲̭ͅn̪̹͔̳͇̫̭̗͎̭̖̩̫͔̜͎͔͚͢͢͡͝t͏͚̦͙͎̱̬ ̛̖͓̺̤͍̙͚̕͢ͅa͏҉̨̳̦̙͓̤̝͔̥̺͕̤͇̲̳̬̘̝̀͜ǹ͙̗͖̳̰̞̝̝̫͕̜͖̦̕͠͠͡d͖̹̱͚̞̙̯̭̤͔̠̹̰͓͖̤̪́͢͝ ̢̡̨̛͓͓͖̖̖̲̗̜͉̫̣̝̗͇̤͍̺̭q͎̠̗̼͉͙̦̩̦̲͍̖͓͈̯̣͔̠͘͢͠͞ͅú̵̗͕̯̣̫͎̱̥͈̫̲̱̼̭̣͉͟͝e͠͏̵̹̗̙̠͓͇̭̝̯͇͎͓̙̙͔̺̲̰̲ş̵̶̢̡̙̯̰͕̙̻̫͕̺̮̰̼t̷̻͓̝̫̕í̷̴̧̺̳̻̣͎͔͍̩̺͖͓ó̧̨͍͍̹͇͚̗̗͔̱͓͢͡ͅn̷͘͡͏̦̖̩̤̥̝͇̱͙̤í̷̼͈̞̻̳̻̼n̷̸̮̣͚̱̠͚͘͢ͅg̸̷̶̘̫̬͔̯̰̠̠̫̩͉̫̱̥̀͘ͅ ̡͘҉̰̳̻̮͓̞̰͉̘̺̯̦̮̳̤̘w̶̯̙̹̖̬͢h̷̩̤͈͓̼̱͉̕e҉̸͚̤͚̪͎͔̜̭͚͔͚͡t̛͖͇̻̙̰͓̪͖̦̮̣̭̩̝́͞h̨̛̫͉̣̬̖͕̠͘e͘͏̛̩̟̳̣͓̱͎̀͝ŗ̧̡̠͉̗̲͎̖ ͠͝͏̪̦͈̯̗͖̤̦̻̺̮͎͞͞o͏̺̟̜̱̲r̖̱̹̣̹̣͍̦̺̝͔̹͖͍͎̯͘͞ͅͅ ̧͎͚̥͎͇̼̩͜n̢͚̥̠̤͜͡͡ó̻̪͙̻̙̦̰̩͠t̶̢͓͇̜̹̜͇̹̬̰͖̪͓͙͇̲̣̠͞͝͞ ͏҉̛̺̻̱͙̙͘͠d҉̮̪̣̣͇̀͘ẃ̨͙̝͇͍̻͎̺͕̙̘̘͇̮͚̞̖͖̥͠ ̷̬̪̼͚͕̖̠̟̺̭̤̘̟̕k̛̟̹̗̳̀͘ǹ̶̻̰̟̲̠͚̺͘͜è̷̥̥̺̠̺̲̪͍͘͟͞w҉̛͕̞̼͕̝̺̲̯̜͔̺̺͔̞̼̟̖͚ ̶̗̮͕̤̖̲̗̣̬͚̼̯͈̪͝o҉͏҉̨̠̳̩̬̣͇̺̝̹̮͝r̷̝̮̠̪̖̱̺̬͍͙̭̦̤̜̹̟̙͎͝ ̧̨̪͖̘̠̙̞͓̮̭̺̠͔̥̲̟̣͕̯͈͝w̕͢͏͟҉͍̘̹̣͖̭͙͕h̷̷͠҉̭̜̝͖͔͉̟̦̠̘̞̗̭̝̰̟͎ͅͅa̢̡͞͏͙̟̲̳̙́ͅt̸͍̲̳̰͎̞͠.̱̮̟͍̼̜̼̤̼̭̤̭͉͞  
̶̜͈̤̲̼͕̼͓͙́͢͞͞  
̧̨̱̝̫͕̘͓̀͝  
̨̡̧͖͈̱̱͉̥͇͎̞͓͕̱̫̗̝̖̘͞  
̶͓͔̥̠̖̮͉͈͢͝t̴̡̼̤͓̬̹̖͚͉̱̪̝̮̞͔̰̩̙͙́͜͢h̴͍̺̬̠̕͢͠e҉̛̘̬̩̯͕̱͍̹̪̰̲̖͉͚̬s̷̀͘҉͈͈̯̦͖̜̥̣͉̠̫͎̰͔̪̳ͅè͉̜͖͞͠ ̴҉̼͖̙̟̰̻̩̺͔͚d̰͚̤͖̳͓̬̫͈͕̜̀͘͠á̲̣̝͙̘̳͚̱̥͙̯̱̲̥̻̳̮̪̜y̸̨͏͖̗̪̪̪͙͈͖̭̟͔̜̤͇̞ͅs͏̷̢̨̠͔̫̫͢ ̸̘͉͈͖̗͈̥̺́̕ì̵͔͇̞͍̩͕̻͍̖̣̦͇̘͎͍̼ ̡̠̻̳̪͢ḩ҉͍̙̣̮̥̯̯̺͚̺̳̗͖̞a̙̫̻̙͚̮͘͟v̵̩̩͍̰̖͎̘̬̦̮͕̹̮͍̜͖̬͢͟͠ͅe͜͜͢͏̷̘͈̱̰̖͕̮̯̘̳̳͓͓͍̝͈ ̷̷̹̣̥̣͖̘̣͉̪̬͎͈ţ̵͘͏͍͕̲̣̟̖͍̺̖̜͇̻̰̰͎͈ͅo̸̷̶̴̰̼̞͕̟̟̞̰̙̝ ͓͇̰̬̖̪̻̩̣̼̦̜̗̰̕͠r҉̴̵̡̗̖̰͡è̷̳̣̣͍̮̝̗̯̠͈̞̝͍͓͡m͙̜̱̬͓̳̯͜͝i̷̷̲̖̲̮̪͔̙̞̗͠͝ņ͝͏͓̜͙̳ḑ̵͓̱͓͕͕͟ ͢҉͚̦̣̼ẖ̵̴̡̺̖̪͙͕̱̬̗͓̠̪̟͜͢è̴̸̮̫̤̫̠r͓̖̖̤̦̱̜̼͓̜̥̮̀̀͜ ̷̲͚̖̰̗̳́͟t̴̢̧͙̘̤̠̬̟̖͈̮̟͎̝̟h̴͏̺̼̳̗͙̺̫̻̳̘͙̺̜͔̲̮a̴͟͡҉̠̲̙̘͠t͏҉͇̙͙̭̰̺̺͕͙̪͘ ̷̴̨̦̖̪͔̙̜̙̕͟i̷͜҉̲͕̞ ̛̪͙̳̩̠̖̮̟̗̞̟͓̜̱̀͡ǫ̷̷̢̛̫̖̟̦n̴̶̛̫͚̣̪̺̞̘͉̱̳̠̺͇͘͡ͅl҉͏̀͝҉̻̙͍̲̥͉̘͓͍̤͇͈̩͈̙̤͉ͅy̸̲̘͍̩͍͉̜̙͓̫̲͍̦̤̫̜̟͢ ͠҉͎̝̞̟̮̙͔̤̙͚̳̗̹͈̀ḱ̛̖̞̱̯͎̙̠͓̲̺̹͝͞ņ̛̕͏͙̦͍̙͉̣̜̙̙̪͖͍ͅͅơ̧̯̬͉̼̫̥̮̝̯̭̲̖̻͚̱̙̟̕w̦̼̣̳͕͚͖̪̤̞͡ ̡̺̘͔̗̦̕ͅͅw̸̶̵̝̲͇̣͈͔̲͍̣̫͙͔͈͙͉̬̩ͅͅh̨̥̼̦̫̟͈̗͔͎͘͡a̸͖̤̩̦̤̘̣̲͍͕͓͚̲̪͔͚̥̜͎t̷̶̷̺͚̘̜͔͙̩͖͖̹͠ ̧̨̦̙̦̻͔̦̠͓͖̜͍͇̜̗̩̺̺̖s̸̳͚̥̜̠̥̣̳͍͙͎̗͚̺̕h̨̛̺̖̬͘͜e̗̻̙̗̹͉̪̤̣̣̕ ̶̳͕͔̙͙̩̫̣͔̣̳̝̠̮͚̖͘̕k̮͖͙̝̳̬̞̘̙̙̙͟͢͜͠ͅn҉̢̠̙̼̻̹́ͅơ̧̲̯̪̭̤̕͘w̥̙̥͡ş̵̶̠͍͔̠̝̪̠̩̤͚͚̞̹̮̹͘͞.͉͎̮̖̳̱̱̪̼͘  
̷̷̘̪̺̦̞̣̳͖̠͎̥̫̭̭͔̜͕́͝͝s̷҉͇̮̩̯͈̯͇̠̲̟̝͍̞̩͜h̢̀҉̡͎̜͚̟̩̣͇̥͎͟ͅe҉͈̱̱̖͙͢ ͟͟͏̘̻͖̪̗̪͉̻̼̣̩̞̠̰̕d̡̬̗̺͎̼̪̦͕̗̪̟͟͝͞ͅo̵̶͕̝͈̞̲̦͕͕̺̟̰̩̖̫̹͎͕̤̥̕ę̧͔͔̘͕̘̦̰̭̭̫͘s̨̩͓̭̗͉̪̭̠̙̞͢ͅn̴̡̠̱̮̟̪̹̩̙̻̗̮̰͉̟͎̱̞̗'̸̀͏҉̢͖̪͖̣͓̠̜̠̹͙̱̖̤͕t̶҉̝͎̩͇̦͇̙̠̮̖̟̠͙̣̻̬̠͠ ̧̛͔̗̫̀͡a̸̡̲̙̙̩̟͟ĺ̵̗͎̗̣̹̞̞̮̹̣̲w͞͏̣̘̗̝̟̥͓̯̼̹̭͓̠͎̕à́҉̨͇̜̩̪͕̭̲̤̩̰͈̗̮͖͈y̵҉̳͍̲͎͇̹͉̭̣̗̻̝̕s̨̛͚̮̗͉̼̱̠͉̕͟͝ ͏̷̨̪̹̞̰̪͍̀͡l̴҉͏͔̹͔̩̣̰̬̣̗i̛͇̪̞̕ķ̝̫̻̜͉̗̖̳̫͡é̴̡̧̳̩̖͔́ ̶͇͉̠̲̙̠͓̫͕̪̦͉͓̙͔́ͅt̵͏͎̳͍̩̫̭̪̥̹̘̞͕̮̖͢͝͡ḩ̧̡͉͈̞̞̠̬̫̤̳͍̩͚̰a̕͠͏̪͈̩̗̪̘̖̜̗͟ͅt̴̡͎̝̰̝̥̙̲͉͈͙.̷̷̡̫̥̹̳͓̣̺͙̣̝͎͚̖͎̕͟  
̶̦̙̩͓̺͔̝̗̣̤͎̲͟ͅ  
̶̡̗̻̤͔̖̠̮̘͖̳̭̦͢  
̀͟͏̘̺̻̤  
҉̷̼̘̞̬̖͙͔̟̯͟  
̧̺̞̝̯͔̤̺͉͚̝͞m͝͏͎̮̺̙̖͖̬̺̰̺͈̩͕̯͙̭͟͝ͅy̴̮͇̰͍̣̮̦̤̭͇̘̠̟͇̕ ̷̬͎̫̭̺̞͕̭͇̞̣̕͞͡w̵͜͏̴̠̭̳̭̻ò̬͔̫̩̼̯̻̝̳̤͎̞͚͇̝͔̭͈͜r̶̵̞̦̳̘͍̺̕͞l̀͘҉҉̧̩̳͍̘̰͈̪̹͕ͅd̴̡̟͔̦̬͚̮̤̟̯̲͝͡ ͉̲̲̼͓͇͔̖̥̪͘͞b̷̵̫͓̤͇̱e̖͉̯̰͉̻̗̻̹̝͉͚̮̟͇̦̹̹̟̕͞c̶̴̬̻̗͙̱͈̗o̴̧̱̟̥̠̲̭͕͍͎̦̺̫m̴̴̧̙̱̝͕͙̤̝͚͎͍̠͕̣͙̩̙e̙̙͉̣͉͙̳͖̟̫̯̫͙͇̘̝͔͢͡͝ͅs̶̨̫̬͕̕͜ ̶͓͎͕͙͎̦̳͚͘͝͞ͅv̢͟͏̦͇̬͎̘̠̠͈̩̳̖̳̯͎ͅe̛̜̖̻̜͙͘͟r҉̴͔͙̯̞͚̪̯̤̮̞͖̟̹̦y̴̨͏̷͕͉̬̯͉̠ͅ ̷̨̨̞͙̙̠͉̼̩̮̥̦̼͔̯͚͕̻̞͈̀ş͡͏͚̭̱̦̻̯̤̩̫̳͙̗̩͉͇̥͈m̛̘̙̠̹̮̲̙̙̮̖̠̜̝̼̦͢a͢҉̷̷̟̫̙̕l̸͙̤̜͖̫͖̘̳̺̦̫͝l̨͓͍͉̱̹̗̯͇̦̣̭̳̥͓̝̰͘͟͡ ̶̖͉̻̟̰̀͜w̢̯̙̭̲̺͙͎͍̤̩̥͝h̭͎͈͉̳͔̠̭͈̬͉̮͙̳̣̩̩̝̻́͝e̴̞̼͍̮̖͈͜͞ͅn̡̨̺̟̣̞͇̲̠̕ ̶̢̛̠̪̥̰͍͈̥̪̙͍̺̮̼̗͜d̸̶̵͇̝̩̳͈̞̀ẃ̧̹̳̞̫͓̥̗ͅ ҉̴͟͝҉͕̱̫̫̞̦̪͚͙͖d̢҉̩̰̲̭͖̻̯̺ǫ̵̰͔̼͖̳͍̭͇͎͇̬͘͝ḙ̡̪̪̫͓͉͚͕̜̮͍̤̰͕͖͕͡͞͝͡ͅs̵̛͙̞̗̘̞̀͟͜n̸̶͏̛͖̣̲̙̩̳͓͇̞͙̣̖̹͔ͅ'̸҉̗̖̟͖̳͘ͅt̴̗̹͖̞̹̦̩̲̳͉͔͓̜̀́̕ͅ ̀͏̶͉̣͕̼̯͚͜w͝͠͏̵̢̪̹̺̥̙à̡̢̯̺̠̝͓͢ͅn̵̤̲̪͉̱̟͍̞̪̪̺̠̬̹̜͙̗̦̰͡t̴̟͓͖̩̘̥̪̱̙̯͎̟̮̦͜ ̵̯̗̙̻̤̯̙͚̝̬̻̤̦̼̠͔͝ͅm̴̨͎̮͎͔͉͉͖̜̭̪̘͕͙̕͘͜é҉͏̪̩̝̠͖͎͔̞̜̰̱̙̰͍̯̗̳͚̤͢ ҉͏̢̧̡̼̫̺͚̺̱̻͕̣̩ͅa̛͎̰̮̬̻̞̪̯̬͢͞ŕ̨́̀҉̺̩̜o̹̙͚̘̬̠͇͇͢͠͡ͅu̴̠̩͇̘̻̮͕̙̩̙̪̪͈͕͝n͠͏͍̝̲͈̘̬̦ͅd̸̴̪̠͎̝̝̳͔͠.͜҉̨҉̳̲̼͍͖̙͇  
҉̶̵̡͈̝̜̤̙̠̯̤̟͕̯̥̮̼͝  
̵̦͓͙͎̩̺̪̻̩̼̱̹͓͖̖̩͜ͅ  
̡͇̺̲̟̼̙̞͙͜͜  
҉̨̖̮̦̱͙̬̗̘̯̮̬̥̰̮͔̮̝͕̀  
̷̨̭̞̲̪̝͕  
̨̩͓͕̰͍͖  
̛̬͉̺̥̳͚̱̱̼̥̱̱̘͙̳͟͜w̷̧̙͖͈̪̜̼̻̦̞̜͔̜͕͔ͅh̵̢̨̘̠̣͢e̷̸̡͈̜̞̟̯̖͖͕̯͇̦͜n̨̪̦͓͈͍͔͘ͅ ̧̮̣̹͍͈͜s͠҉͏̞̩͈͔͉̝̬̣͚̜̮̬͖̳̱̭͎̜̺h̴̵̨̘̱̗̥͢͢è̞͇͉̭̮͇͓͔̲̲̙̫̹̙̺̖̙̲͕ ҉̷͓̭͉̠͘ͅd̵̡̖̯͎͈͓̳͉̮̗͉̗͙̗͈͝͡ͅo̸̰̱̻͙̞͓̻̥̟͞͝é̱͚̬̼͕͖̼̪̝̤̭͈̙̯͓̫̖̰́s̡̧̢̺͈͍̭̰̜͖͚͉̭̕͜n̶̡̰̻̥̟͚̞̘͙̖̬͡'̡͞҉̶̨̞̜̠̙̬t̵̵̟̱̝̤̖͔̪̬̀͠ ̨̗̠̼̭̲̯͎͇̘͙͍͚͟͝l̮̱̯̫̫͓̲̮̥͙̫̗͎͕̦̟̀͟i̡͏̻̠̩̺͓̀͝k̶̶͖̺̺̩̰̭̳͈͉̮͉̀͘͢è̷̛͔̼̜̻̮͎̣̞̱̻̻̻͙ ̢̨̯͔̘̰̭̬̙̦̺̜̙̻͉̹͈̱̗ḿ̫̺̦͎̹̮͓͈͔̜̫͈̰̘̗̝̱̕͡e̸̝͍͉̠̻̗͈̩͙̞̭͓͇̘͔͈͢ͅ ̸̮͚̬͕͖͚̜̪̖̪̲̲̞̭̬́i̟̮͖̭̥̻̤̠̬̹̲̙͇͓͘͡'̶̛͍̺̪̰͚̘̫̹͞m҉̷̦͈̱͕͖͇̳͚̱̙̭͙̭͇͖̣̤̹ͅ ̵̠͍̙̖͔̤̣̟̼̠͔̜̮̕͠͠͞g̸҉̸͚͔͍̰̗̭̤̤͖̻̣̟͔̻̘̖̺̳i̷̴̭̜̖̼͍̻͜v̸̜͉̫̘̼̲͓̣͚̙͞͡è̛͉̪̭̼n̲̹͈̤̭͇͕̩̭͉̘̣͕̲̖͈̣͘ͅ ̡̭͉̹̤̹̱̳͘͠t̨̨̛͖̖͎͓̰h͉̮̘̱̰͉̕o̸҉̪̫̮̠ͅư̟̲̱̦̠̦̟͔͟͝s̴͍̤͇͎͢͡ͅą̢͇̘͇͔͙̩͘͢n̢̛̕͏͇͉̦̤̦͍d͉̬̗̥̭̲̭̦̜͍̕͟͝͝s̡̪̦̠̗͚͕͜͜͡͞ ̨̨̛͙̖̬̪͓̻̱̲͈̙̟͍̭͓͘͟ͅǫ̴̬̣̺̹̝̘̘̘͔̻̻̬̺̫̙͈̩̭͟͠ͅf͏̵̨̞̩͎̫̜̖͓̰͜ͅ ̴̣͚͕͇͚̮̖͞ͅḛ̴͙̞͔̭̼̜͎͍̟̰̝͈̲̹̦͔̬̮̀͞y̙͔̟͙͈̫̤͍̬̲̱͘͠ͅé̗̻̠̭͈̫̺͖͕͇̜͇̻̙̝̀͡s͏͔͚̖̞̞̳̜͔̗̳̭̪͜͞t̡͈͇͇͖͙̘͖͉͙̱̖͎̜̱̀́͟ͅa̧̛̞̭̥̣̖̪̪͈͎̤̞̗͔̖̤͈͙̕ͅļ̴̴̶͓͙̳͎̩̭͕̭͇̳͖̯k͟͠͡҉̬̜̪̮͡s̵̵̭̼͎̩̼̭͚͎ ̶̭̙̪͍͔͜a̵̢͔̞̞̹͕̺͖̱͔n̦̲͎̭͉͔͚͍͟͝d҉̞͇͉̯̲͕̪͇̻͍͚̥̗̺̖̳͔̳͘͝ ̶̪̦̦̫̳̱̜͇̮̺̪̗̜͔͖̫̘͇̝͡͝m̛͏̢̘͖̲͖͍͉̭͖̱̩̩̦̱̦́̕y̵̨͠҉̴̰̩̣͔̯̖̫̼̦͔͕̰̱̫̯͕̥̣͎ ̶̧̱̘̤͙͍̻̺̪̠̝̞̕͡f̸̛͇͎̟̘̞̥̟͚͉͈̱̩͘͟͜a҉̡̥̮̟ͅc̷̵̢͇̗̖̩̦̰̗̘͓̕͠e̕҉̴̙̲͇̫̞͖̟̺͖͟ ̸̷̬͕͎̦̤̖͖̻̣̮͢͞ͅb̡̢͚̰̲̯̲̪̜̟̳̟̲͈̙̳̲̥͓́r̢̭̖͚̟̘̝͉̫̟͍̱̘͓͘͘e̬͕͕̪̫̘͔̩̼̫̰͖̗͚͙̟̤͘͢à̡̤̣̙̹̗̩̦̲͙͖̺̦̦̲̦̗̜̜͜͠͝k̡̻̜͚̣̜͈̙̦̀͜͢͞ͅş̼͕̝̲̳͍͖̀͝ ̧͙̗̬̟̲̲̥̩̩̹ͅa͏̡̛̮͓͚̟̯̺̲̝̕͟p̵̴̛̠̳̭̜̲̜͎̖̺͔̝̜͚͜a̧̧̝̞̘̫̺̮̠̩̭͝͞r̵͘͏̘͈̳̻͎͘t̷̴́҉̩̪̥̬̲͕͖͖.̡̡̪̩̼̜̤̺̀́͟ ̸͍̮̫͕̜͔̫̥̣͈͜l̴̛̛͖͓̖̬̥̤̗̪͔͞i̶̛̻͙͚̹͍̘̥̫̯͇̲̰͈͡͝g̢̞̰̪̟̱͚̜̪̻̙͘͟ͅh̴̷̴̴͉͚͖͇t̷̩̗̼͓̝̤̪̪͈̘͎̟̞͓͈̠̬͔ ̷̡̦̼̣̟͔̦̭̜̘̫̫̻́b̢̠̣̱̗͖̯̦̘͡e̵̴̵҉̠̤̳͙̱̻̥͍̙̣̺̫̞ͅc̶̡̞̫̩̖͍̱̩̫͓̰͍̭͟o̷̷̷̵͔̤̘͍͖͞m͏̪͙͔̣̠̮̻̟̰̦̮̤̲̯̯̣̪̀ͅe̷҉̛̯̣̠̠͜s̷̛̻̱̪͔̣̯̱̗͕̬̙̲̺͎̠̫̥ ̵̵̛͎̙̮̗̬͙̬̤̮͖͉̜̯̫̫̲̦͙̯́̕a̶̢̛̗̘̤̱͇̟ ̢̢̻̭͓̻̺̱̯̭̫̗̞̠̼̘̀͞r̵̯͉͈̗͉̯̪̖͓͠ę̴̵̝̪͈̕͢f̴̳̖̞̩͕̯̙̩̦͉̹̘͎̬̤̝͚̭̪̀͢l̷͏̘̰̭̯͚̳̫̙̟̪̗̹̜̬͚̕͜ę̸̜̩̬̜̳͖̬̲̯͈͎̖͚̺̙̗̫͉͘͢͡ͅc̴̶̵̺̜̹͖̥̜̩̙͙̦͍̠̞ͅt҉͈̭͖̦̲̤̭̥̺͘į̵͉͇̻͈̥̞͉͓̣̦̦́ͅó҉̠͇̯̳ͅǹ̵̨͖͖̲͕̝̝̤̞̝̠̼͈͓̙̳̘͖͢ͅ ̢̬͕̬̺̗̦̜̤͚͖̯̜̤̰͈̗͓̀a̶̷̬̞͕̙̹̭͚͇͔͍͇̯͖̪̦͘̕͞n̢̡̢̩̣̱̞͎̲͖̭̱͔̦̜̘͠͠d͇̪̬̬̜̼̺̳͉̹̳̱̗̮̱̹͍͉̕ ҉͔̦̙͔̠̩̼͔̭͙̭̗̼͖̟̫̜̀͡͡o͘͏̻͖̥̫̪̪͚̖̞̝̫n͏̷̷̨͇͇̺͈̥̜̝̙̹͓͘l͠͏͚̘̲̘͕̲̥̟̤̥̖̭̺̤͜ý̸͖͈̮̳̥̙̣̪͔͇̱̕ͅ ̷̰͚͙̬͖́i̴̞̩̝͕͙̹͖̯͖̤̫͇̫̘̦̯͉͘͢͠ͅn̰̥̣̫̖̟̙͚͇͕͢͠ ̷̻͉̩͇͙̗̩͕̻̦̗͜͟ḏ̵̸̹̣̬̩͇̤̗̙̬͙̫̠͟͟ḁ͈̣̗̦͇̣̙̳̭̠̜̩̹̲̹͘͠r̮͎̳̼̳̤̤̩̬͚̭̱̙̭̀̕͡k̢̬̞̩͚̹͖̪̘̰̳͉̤̹͉̀n̡͍̗̝͝e̸̛͉̯͇̥̣͈̟͍̟̯̘͎̝̘͚ş̛͚̟̦̼̲̫̗̮̱̹̥͍͓̰̠̩́s͏͈͎̗͎͕̹͖͖̻̱͎̭̗̯̫͡ͅͅ ̮̗͙̬̪̤̯͍͓̼͕͔̼͎̜̙̹͠c̴̨̧̢͚̣̻̥͉͇̳͈̖̬̘̬͔̮͞ͅạ̛̲͓̪̘̫̳̳̞͉̦̜̺̀͟ǹ̻̺͔͎̹̕ ̧̤͍͙̮̹̹̘́̕͜i̴̧̛͙̺̥͓͓͎̪̯̹̩̭̱͠ͅͅͅͅ ̴̧͏̩̮̥̖͎͖̘͉̙͕͖̦̣̭̀͝ͅs̷̨̛̠̯͎͉͘e̷̵̠̰̻̜̲̮̭͔̖͝ḛ̮̩̹̹̭̟͙̭͖͠ ̷̛͚͙̙̮͎͉͜͡t̢̠͓̙ͅh̨̰̬͙̝̳͟͡ę҉̢͓͓̫̭̪͙͚̪̗̻͍̺͘ ̵̨͉̬͇̩̼͈͇͖͍͍̖͘͠w̷̞̖̙͚̰̘̝͇̥͉̦̕͢ó̢̡̩̮͇̞̜͓̟͈͜ŗ̵̛͕̭̩͇̖̕͟l̀͢͞҉̢̺̼͉͙͈̮̤̙̣̫͙̱͙̪̹ͅd̦̘̟̳̝̜̠̮͎̰́͜ ̸̷̧̘̰͇̫̙̠̘̺̗͙͍̖̤̝̬̣͇̣͜ͅa͚̠͚͙̰͓̬͞r̢̛͙͖̜͓̲̥̯̞̤ͅo̶̷̙̺̘̼̠͍̜̲̻̞̪̥͚͟ͅͅu̶̶̡̡͍̦͉̺̺ͅn̷̨͎͍̞̺͓̣̞̼͖̺̯̺̺͓͚d̵҉̫̪͎̮̲̜̠͓̰̦̦̙͝ ̨̫̬̜̙̀͢ḿ̶̢̜̯̺̤̟̭̹ȩ̺̼̪̲̜̳̙̲̝͉͖͚͘͜͢͠ ̡͇̜͔̙̤͉̺̰̘̤̞͙̲̖̣̖̱͉͞i̷̸̙̩̟̞͖̼̪͚̲͙̲̠̺̻͉̝̱͇͡n̡͖̳̺̮̱̰̱͟͞ͅs͚̬͚̘̱̭̬̠̱͇͝͠t̸͏̖̯̰̥͍̻̻̯͔̠̼̤͞e̛̱̻̣̞̱̖̟̜͕̣͔̖̪̹a̷̧̻̖̞͙͈̥̖̘̻͇̪̻͔͕̫̥͉̠ͅḑ̥̟̣̟̤̱̱̲̙̙̞͘͘͟ ̸̘̟̝͎͇̙̜̖͉̤̲̖͢ó̡̢̬͔͚̤͙͇̞̺̗̩̫̩͡ͅf҉̷̧̙̻̳̫̼̦͖͇͕͈͙̭̼̭ ̵̧̙̱̤̞̺̤̯̼̞̮̫̖̭̪͉͉̦͕͠m̧̙͕̼̘͇̪̫̪̤̞͕̫͇̯̲̭̀͠ͅy̵̪̫̦̰̞͍͙͔̘̫ ̴̧̖̠̻̩͈̟̹̦̬͇̲̮̠̥̯̖͜t̴̨̡̬͔͈̖̰́͜ḥ̛̣͔̥͉͖̀́͠ͅͅe̵̫̲̞̹̦͔̮͈͝ͅo̷̡͙̻̼̝̥̳̮͈̳̩͈̜̺͎̪̪̪̳̘͟͝͠ŗ͔̺̬̜̭͈̖̘̣͚̱̩͖͘͜͜é̴̛͜͏̠̖̫̗̤̮̲͎̤̪͔̫̦̼̱͎͉̮t̸̕͡҉̗̟͍̪͙̯̩̯̝̜͕̣͓̪̜͝i̸̛͕̭͖͔̱̕͘͜ç̳̱̱̰̜̕a̢͇̯͙͍̪̱̲̤͍͔̱̠̤̥͟ļ̶̟̜͚͍̞̼͙͓̫̠̣̝̺̩̘͍͢͟͢ͅ ̵͇̲̣̟͔̹̗̕͡ṣ̨̟̗͔͍̭̺̳̕͘͝e̸̖͔̩̥͇̝̭̯̞̕͟l̨̙͚̮̦̹̰̥̞̤̗̜̰̟̭̦̕͘͞͡f̳̫͎͔̬̗̞͚̮̪͚̪̝̜̞̟͉͚̕͟͠.̨͎̟̝̳͎̪̘̥̞̲̟͇̪̘͟͠ͅ  
̴̬̯̤̣̬̼̀͘͞  
̶̴͍̘̖̝͖̦͠  
̛͚̖͎̦̗̥͈̟͕̘͟  
̶̴̧̧̰̫̺͉̰̟͈̮̭̹͚̳̳̘̺̳͞  
̵̠̥̣̮̭͇̞̺̘̯͘͘͠ͅͅc̛̞̟̭͖̯̥͚͍̼͈͓̹̬͕̠̲̀͡͠ͅr̶̨͔̜̗̤͙̰͚͚̕a҉̶̫̬̙͈͔͖̗̣͓͎͉̺͖̼͕ͅẓ̨̛̬̘̞͝͞ý̲̜͕̹̩͖̟̝̳̭͔̀.̷̛̜̥̜̼͕̝̺̹̞̱̠̙̹̻̮̹̝̀͘ͅ  
͏̫̠̪̲̖͞  
̢̤̱̤̰͎̳̤̳̗̥̞̗̞̙̣̻̬̳̲͡ờ̴̴̟̼͕̖̮̜̞̣̼̖͔̭͓̱̳̘͉̲͠ͅn͜҉̢̢̮͎̘̞̪̩͔̣͔̰̞͎̘̥̬͜ḙ̶̴̹̜̬̙̠̙͡͝ ͈̞̝͈̩̤̙͍̯͍̥̫͓͇͈͚̀̕͜͜͝ọ̼̦̳̫̰͕̜͙͍͎́ͅf̷̨̜̭͈̮͍̗͇̜̫̳̖̦̳̲͖̪̳̭́ ̢̞̟̮̞͇̝͙̥̀̕͞ͅm̶̢̝̗͍̯̯͈̞͉̮̠̜̯͍͘y̶̰̝̯͍̣̦̻̪̦̺͈̞̮͜͡͡͠ ̛̲̦̫͇̬̟̞͇̱̳̞́j̸̡͙̝̦̻̯͖̗̀ò̴̡̬͖͕̣̬̟̜̺̀͠b̵̸̷̝͎͎̖̱̕͢s̷̴̡͔̝̹̜̤ͅ ҉͏̯̲̬͉i̛̥͇̜̖̪̲͜ś͉̰̘̭̘̩̗̫͖̟̙̹̬͔͜ ̶̲̩̖̮͓̪͖̠̞͕͠t́͏̵̫̺̻̫̦͘͘ͅo̢҉͓̲̣͈̰̙̘͜ ̷͈͇͓̬̟̳̞͙̳̜̙͈͙̥͈̫̖̕c̡͙̳̪̲̜̱͖̫̼̀͘͠o̷̴̡͇̗̼̜͕̗̣̱̞̠̹̗͓̙̹͔̣̕n̢̨͓̠̪͕̲̯̻̹͉̰͚̤͖̟s҉̴͉͎͉͍ù̴͚̼̳̬͉͓͚͈̼m̧̨̛̝̻̝̫̰̪͓̣͈̥̞̲̫̞̤̘̞̗̀e͏̷͈̪̹̥̝̙͍͔̮̬̳ ̶̕͏͎̣̘̤͖̕ạ̷̡̢̪̼̤̟̤͠p̵̲̠̬͕͕̣͈̗̠̥̖̘̦̪̝͟o̷̩̠͓̼̰͚͈̙̤̩̻̮̼̣͜͝ͅl̸̢͇̣͔̦̤̣̲̬̙̙̳̗̮̻̹͇̫͈̫o͙̻͉͕̩̼͓̬̻̬̬̱̕͘g͢͏͓͓͎͎̪͈̣͇͉̤̮̝̣̞͉͉̪̲̀i҉͙͔̭̼͙͖̻̩̖̹é̛͏̗̥̟̻̪̹̝̦̘͕̠͙̮̙̳̰̪͠s̸̨͉̯̺̭̮̤͕͎͡ͅ ̶̵̠̗̰̥͔̖̹͙͉͈̮̀͢l̢̪͇͉̦̺͙͝i̵̶̸̟͉͖̗̩̱͈̫̗̘͚̠̝̻̲ḱ̡̜̜̙̟̟̼͚̙͍̦̫̼̹͟e͟͏̵̴̰̘̥̰̜̬̣̘͎̥̝̝͝ ̷̗̬͕͉̗̣͈͠m̸̶̸͉̠̰̬͓̯̙̥͔̙̗̝̺̣͓͘͝ú̗͚̙̜͘͡͝f̧̰͚͖̤̀̕͠ͅf͏̶̡̟̦̜̱̼͍͚̹͉̪i̧̺̟̙͚̰̫̩͘͞n̴̷̛̟̬̝̝͖͈̙͖̱̼̖͈̘͎̝͟ș̗͎̜̀́͘͜.̶̰̣̟͉͞͝͝ ̴̻͎͕̭͔̭̯̙̯̝̣͓̞̯̜̀a̧҉͉̻͍͈̙̻̲͔̻̭͜n͎̲̺͈̤̕͝y̵̛̥̦̹͖̠̥̭̟̩͉͓̪͈̼̬̫͓t͟͏̖͇̺͙̥̹̝̘̩̗̱̹͉̦ị̭̯̯̮͍̘̖͕̖̖͔̱͖͔̲̳́͞m͉̰̪̹͢͝ͅe͕̳͚̦͍͕̕͝ ̷̷͉̼̻̦̟̘̰̪̣̻̻͘ǫ̷͘͏̣̞̙̺̱̗̤̻͔͍̥̦̝͇̲ͅͅn̴̴͍̘̣̮͇͍̲̫̪͕̤̹̺̘̱͉ͅè̢̮̫̖͙̫̟̠͠͝ͅ ̱͔͎͔̲̩̠͈̗́͘ͅͅo̵̯̫̮͇͞c̶̛̜̜̼̟̺̹͙͇͢͝͠c̛̪̩̰̬̖͓̞̹̞̠̙ͅͅú̱̫̗̘̪̤͖̗͙̯͕̙̖̖̣͔̻̝͞r̴̪̙̝͖̭̺̹̀̕̕ş̰̪̥͚̜̳́͘͜,̴̧̧͇͔̹̝͚͇͇͢͡ ͏̷̢̝͚̙̜̲̜̖̩͚̥̖͈͕͇̭̲͔͕͞i̴̴̷͢҉͇̪̱̜̪̳̤͇ ҉̧̱̖̩̭͟e̷̵̛̩̮̼̠̙̱̲̱͇͉̼̜̹̫̦̞͉͕a̵̳͚̬͈̬͎͎̘͖͕̭͎̰̭̯̟̘͟͠t̵͙̻͍͕̭͖̝̪̖̘̰̕͡ ̶̷̀͏̳̪̪̙͍̫̤̠̖̝̣̲̟̝̼͔̜̮ị̵̳̜̬̬̮̥͙̣͇͖̀͠͝t̷̨̨͔̫̻̫̟͎̰̤̣͙͓͢ͅͅ.̶̢̨̙̖͇͇͔̗͖̦͚̜̝̮͘͞ ̷͍̯͈̦̤͢i̺̪͕͓̗̺̦͢t͏͏̸͔͙͖̳̖͙͖̰̭͙̪͔̻͔̫̀ ̛̛̺͎̯͕͕̠̟́̕d̵̵̼̖̥͇͎͚̙̮͍͍͚̬̯̦͜o̧͙̬͈̙͍̣͇̩͉̬̞̻̹͙͔̲̬͍̰͘͟e̛̙̩̪͚̱̦̯s͡҉̵̷̧̖͙̜̤̻̪̙̲̖̼̲͉̜̖̥ͅͅņ̶̭̹̤̱̝̝͈̦͟͟͠'̸̲͍̗͍̟̫͔͚̞̟͙̜͟͡ͅt̵̝̱͇̖̪͝ ̷̧̠͇̩̞̭̪̭͕̲̫̦͓͞m̴͎̦̟͇̼͉̘à̢̧͏̯̣̭̺̠̲̗̯̭̫̠̤̣͕̼ͅt̡̠̹͍̖̺̗̹̜͘͝t̴̼̭̣̮̰̻͇̲͎̀̕͠ȩ̛͎̩̘̻̲̰̱̗̩͓̰́͡r̕͏̥̩̜̙͇̜̹͓̘̘̬̣͖̣̺̦̼͕ ̧͏̨̬̱͓͚̮͓̫̣̻̖͍͟í̷̡͚͇̙̱̹͓̖͙͔͟f̛͉̣̳̜̫̪͠ ̶̮̙̦͎͎̻̙̘͖̼͚̙̤̙͡i҉̘̠̪̘̙̠̰̕t̷̟̯̫͙͞͡'̶̢̙̲̬̯͎̖̝̩̭̙̣̪͖̮͔͕s̵̶̨̫̦̥͙ͅ ͏̷͚͇̗̙̜̦̞̤͖͎͍̺g̨̻͈̭̙̭̺̭̞͇͙͙̜̬͚̟̖͡è̷̶̡̬͕̝̩̮̼̫͓̞̣̮̪̲̮͝ͅn̶̷̡̡̮͈̲̼͖͖ͅu̴̧͎͚͈̞̯̲̗͓̺̻͚͇̝̕͜i̧̧͙͇͈̗͔̘̱ǹ̨͚͖͚͖͔̩̺̻͓͝͞ę̢̜̳̩̥̲̟͉͎̖̜͍͝ ͝҉͔̥̯͕̲͓̺͖̙͍̰̯͇͕͇̮͍̣͡o̵̗͇̘̙͉̭̣̪̩̣̗͡͡r̨̭͎̫̮̭̟̹͎̣̥̥̦̩̯̘͈͘ͅ ̴̴̢̮̪͖͚̘̳͔̠̟̀n҉̶̧̨̗̤͕̺͔͖͍̖͖̤̙̳͓̹͓̫o̶̡̟̼̻͓̭͓̯̘̣̻̲͢͠͠ͅt̶̡̺͕̼̘̝ͅ,̶҉̸̶̟̹̝̣̞̭̲̳̥͇͜ ̴̨̡̛͙̭͈̘̘̼̺̰͈̦̤̰̭͕̳̳͙͘d̵̡̛͏̨͖͔̟̲̱̹̺͇̠̦͓̲̬̪͓̘̳ȩ̛̲̙̳̞͖̟͉̣͓͓͙̘̺͙̻̙̕͞p̡̢͚̟̜̞̻͠ͅͅe̷̡̬̲͎̤̙̖͍̱̠̱̰n̢͝҉̫̲̥̣̥ḑ̵̻͕̺̀͢͝í̱̮͚̳̠͕̞͔͔̫̲̻͈̘͢͞n̸̙̺̯̳̼̰̹̹͙̥ģ̛̱̯̱͈̠̝͙̯͍̼͇̺́̕͟ ͏̳̯̗͍̟̺̻͓̟̜̲͇̞̺̭͙͘͡h҉̸̛̱̦̲̯͖̼͜o̴̴͖̘̜̞̰̙͖̺̯̰̭̣͈̖̞̟͢͞w̡̨̗͚̱̮͎̞͕̰̞̜̖̼͓̪ ͉͍̟̬̩̺̰̣̠̰̱̤̹̞̰͞͞g̛̹͉̘͕̕͝ó̵͓̪̤̤͍̻̣͖͍̲̙̫̜̬̞͈͘ͅd̨͈̤͓͓͕̖̺́̕͘͞ ̵̲̠͍͚͘͜͢f̧̧̝͉͚̪̕͟͜ȩ͚̮̠͎͎͇̯̯̣e̶̸̶̩͉̘̲l҉̡̦̘̮̗̩͇̜̬̻͚͚̲̞͕̗ͅs̷̨̲͍̞̲͍̼̣͚̯̦̪̞͓ͅ ̴̡̛̞̫͈̥͎̱̣̙̠̗̜͖͔̞̀͟i̸͘͜͏̫̙̠̗͙͍̫͙t̯̫̞͚͚̰͍̳̕͜͝ ̶̰̙̰̭̬̱̕͟c̸̢̛͔͍̲̰̲͚̮͓̪͝ò̢̼̟̳̼̻͎͈̘͖̝̤̫̯̝̺͢͟u̸͓̟͚̦̹̫̪̱͙̠͚̱̩̺̳̗͘͞l̸̨̲̮̲̼̞͈̼͞ḑ̛͖͚͎͕͎̘̻̫̘̭̙͕̹́ͅ ̢̢̰͈̜͎̯͍̩̺̩̭͙͙̳͕͢͞m̸̵̟͚̹̞̘̜̬͍̻͇̥̺̞̹é̵̴̡̟͙͎̟͔̦͉̩͚̰á̼̦͎̭̥̦̝̗̫̼͕̥̫̬͎̝̻̺͚̕͠ń̟̩̣̙̥̺̫̠̻̼͞ ̸̷̡̹͓̻̯̱̖̟̻̱̱͙̣̱̦͟͢o̶̶̝͉̼̖̜͍̣̳̘͡n͖͚̩̟̬͚͕̱͖̩͇̺̜̪͝͞ͅe҉̨̦͔̯̦̙͈̥͈͎͚͈̜̮͡͡ͅ ̶͉͔̬̞͖̙ḿ̨̛̰͈̥͙̱̖͓̟͘͘u̷̡͇̖̳̬͈̺̳͙͉̤̥ͅf͏̸̟̩͙͔̫̤̜̤̯̘̺̻̤̦͈̤̣̟̞͡f͈͎̜̥̝̱̙͢͞͡͝i̵̴̡̧̞͉͖̫̖n̨͇̜̣̘̜̯͔̹̤̜̮̟̹̺̳̳ͅͅ ̷̴͜҉͈͇͖̖̮̳̦̬̳͖̫̘o͏̴̭͚͔̪̺̰͍̥͈̠͉̤͉ͅr̛̜̲͇͍̫̻͎̘̯͕̫̙͙͈ ̸̵̡̲̟̯̲̮͙̕a̙̜̦̭̼͎̣͓̣̹͔̹̖͟ ̵̡̘̫̖̮̯͖͉̞̼̰͖̟̣̳̞̗̦͟͢͝d̷̤̩̩͔͈̟͍̬̭̦̮̩̹͚̕ͅò̶̶̸͙͉̟̳͕͇͜z̶̶̤͉̺̝͖̺̤͓͢͢͢e̘̣̬̠͚̣̫̗̲͡͠ͅn̴̫̯̮̱̜͎̞̟͚̱̰̕͠.̴̨͢͟͏̟͓̖̦ ̷̴̝̰͉̟̱̟Ț̤̻̰̳̦̺̘̲͚̣̞̲͕̦͙͠͝͝ͅh̸̛̛͕͎͎̞̺͈͇̦̳̰͉͠ͅè̶̘͔͔̮̪̞̲͇̭̥̭͘͜y̶̵̛͏̻̼̬͈̼͇̝͚̦̰̣̱̞͍͖͕͖̦ ̛͖̫̱̠͘ͅm̡҉̥̘͈̩̘̝͙u̴̡̢̬̻̯̗̥̜͇̹̰̬̣̕ͅl̺̱͔͓̪̥͓͚͞ͅt̖̻̼͔̟͍͈͈̠͔͇̤͚̙͓̀́i̸͕̝̝̕p̨̢̬͎̭̗͇͎̦̕͟l̨̡̲̯̲̤̝̣̀͠y̴̥̪͍̤̞̦̯͖̼̤͎̘̩͢͢ ̨̣͙͎̪̬͖̙̗͈͔͚͓̩͙̳̙̗̻͘͝ò̧͕͍͈̮̫̗̠̪̱̖͠͝͝ǹ̨̡҉̳̞̮̤̖̀ ̮͔̞̞̬͉͔̠̲̪̼̕̕͜ų̛̻̰̖͍̹̠͖ͅș̸̨̜͚̹͕̞͕͘͡ͅe̶̡͖̮̰̻̼͉̼̖͉̮̬̖͔̤̫͉̭͖͝͞ͅş̶̢͈̼͉̣̝ ̷̛̞̦̜͎͈̱̠̝̖͈͙̫̰̠͝͠o̢̖̱͙̺̮͍̰̞͈͚͍̕͝f̖͙̝̭͚̫͝͞ ͝͏̞͈͚̩͇̬̼͍̹͖̣̘̺̬̀͘ṱ̢̡̰̪̱̭̳̗̺̭̜̝̙͈͎͖͚̀͞ḥ̢͕̳̠̹̟͈̕͠e҉̴̢̭͎̦̹̩̘̜̻͕̰̥͡ ̢͟͏̬̙̩̝͚̬̞̼̱͢͠w̵̷̢̕҉̯̫͙̰͚̱̮͇̖̲͓̫̭ớ̛̫̣͈͔̳̙̭̘͕̪̝͍͖̮̜̞̟ͅͅṛ̷̸̮͔͔ḑ̛͈̘̠̳̙̝ ̷͈̹̟͎̜̙̫̪̪̩͢'̡̛̥̫͕̬͓̺̬̬̬̞̻͞ș͇̰̱̫͉̝̕͞͞ơ̷̡͏̙͈͉̱͕͈̞̻̤̦̣̬̬̼̮̺ŕ̷̷̬͎̘͙̞̺̰̗̝̟ͅr̶͏̳̘̣̻̯̹̹̞̬̪̭̙̗̯͓̦͎͟ͅy̶̸͡͡͏̩̯̹̝͔͖̤̘'̸̧̣̠̩̯̬̳̹̞͎̱͔͕͎͇͘͞.҉̡̛͔͕̠̳̩̯̻̹̘̟̖͙̜̗͙͘͝  
̢̡̛̦̤͓͚̬̟͕̜͚̟̦̰͙́  
̢͏̬̗̻̰͍͕ͅi̸̮͎̣̮̩̼̺ ͔͓̺̻̺̕͟ͅh̴̢̯̟̹̻̘̬̳̩̘̺̼̙̻͖a̸̢̛͝͏̮͈̤͕͖̞̤̮̘͖͎̻v̦͍̯͓̖̥̝͖͎͢͝͡e̴͚͖̖̲̣̻ ͉̟̀̀̕͡ͅf̺͈̻͈̦͚̬͘͠a̴̸̩͈͎̻̗̭̰͕̮͕̥̫̰͚͕͠į̖͙̦̲̩͞ͅͅt̢̨͇͔̦͎̳̞͙̹͡h̴̨͓͎̫̤̻̦͔̞̦͇̜̰ ̶̶̨̺̝̤̟̱͇́̕ą͏̴̡̝̗̫̰̫̯̭͖͉͓̹͔͉̦̼̩͖͢l̸҉͎̟̣̗͉̲̟̲͕͖ŗ̨̱͎̣̟͙̹̮͇͍̬̰i̵̡̛̤̭̮̜̙̘͇̖͕̗͇̜͎͕̠͚͈̩͝g̰̥̲̘̠͖̹̩͙͚͍̮̯͜͝ͅh̷̸̳̰̼̯͎́t̘͓̥̝̬̦̖̥͇̞̯̘̙̬̫̜̻̣͓̀͞.̞̭̺̬̩̩͙̥̭͈̝͙̲̫̥̩͘͡ͅͅ ̡͡҉҉҉̩̖͈͇͓̹̮̻f́͏̱̝͕̠̣̟̪̖a͠҉͚̤͕͈͉̼̩̤̫̜̲̫i̧͇̩̣͎͓̺̙t̶̡̡̠̙̘͙͝h̰̺̲̝͇̝̝͕͍̪̠̟̙̙̘͍͢ͅ ̸̙͍͕̗̖̳̩̙̪̙̺̞͠͞t̴̹̘̥̝̳̹̳̫̼̗͜h̵̨̛͖̹̟̦͎͙͕̖̤̹̹̠̞̺̺̲̦̞̹͘a҉̷͖͔̰̼̝̳̟͞͡t̸̢̡҉̞̪̬̘̺̭̲͔ ̶̡͓̦̟̟̼̼̬̭͈͇͍̺̤͔̀͘ţ̸̣͇͙͎͓̝̜̞̖̦̰̪̙͇̞̱ͅh̛̯͉̝̗̗͘ę̠̤̖̘͜r͘҉̠̳̙͎͙́̀ę̷̪̻̯̹̙͘ͅ'̸̸̠͎͉̠̼̫̪͡͡s̷҉̷͚̺̜̤̣̞̤͝ ̵̘͔̙̰͚͙͕̤̝̀ş̵̳̟̫̺̣͚͖̘̟͔͔͎̯̩͓̲̀͟ͅo̶͎̝͙̰͇͇͈̬̕ͅm̷̨̰̼̗͎̗̝͕͇̖̺͕͔͉̥͕̳̣̪͜͝ͅḛ̵͇̜͖̕͟t̷͓̜͉̠̞̲̼͎̥̬̙͖̩̕͜h̨̢̛͉͚͍̝̫̥̬̙͙͚̞̯͚͙̺̀ì̧̡̮͖̖̥͖̝̘̦̣̤̤̯͜ǹ̯̗̥̦͈̣͢͟͞g̸̷͎͖͙͓̹̰̝̀ ̛̦̹͎̣̤͉̦̞͍͈̣̰̟̩̣͈̠̪͖́b̶̷̧̪͇͙̪͇͕͉͈͎̰̦̻͚͍͟e̟̤̤̥̺͙̙̺̬͈̪̮̥͜ͅy̶̵̗͙̰̰̼͎̙̦̥̱͔̲̭̕͜͜ͅo̸̠̱̟̰͕̙̦̲̕͡͠n͏̴̨̝̪̫͚̩̻͍͎͙̠͞͡d̡͇̟̦̙͓͓̱̝̯̪̝̞͟͡ ̸̢̱̙͖̠̫͘̕͟g͏̷̴̤̪͔o̵̝̙̝̻̱̩̣͕̲̰̱̖̺̤̥͔̮͍̞d̡̰̟̣̯̳͚͕̱͟.̹͔̭̤̮͍̤͎͍͎͕͈̮̣̙̕͘͜͠  
̴̜͔͍̥̕s̶̛͘͏̴̟͙̘͍̦̱̱͔̩͇̬̻̠̗͇̥̮̘o҉̭͕̟̻̮̀͜͞͝m͟͝҉̡̳̱̬̜͎ͅę̶̶̵̟̬̺̻͉͓̜͓͈̫̱̥̮̰̟͙̝͞ț̴̡̧̮͍̲̘̥̼̰͍̘̣̭͓̥͕̱̀͠h̨̯̖̻̗͚̺͍̥̤̀̀͠ì̡҉̷̫͍͉̠̰̲̻̼̬̻͍̣̺̗̥ͅͅǹ̵̛̻̪̥̠̼̖̪̪̯̠̫̟̯̯̟̼͞g̦̥̯̳͙̮̯̦̜͇͇̮̝̀̀ ̨̛̱̝̲̘̩͞t̕͟͟͏̠͇̗̝̺̠̠̻̲̩͕̝̤ḫ̨̡̟͓͓͚̤̯̺̕a̬̳͓̲̪̩̮̖̬̼̩̩͎̻͕͉͠ţ̶̶̛͈̙̮̙̰̣̬̠͇͉̹̘̫͞ ͏̡͈̖̲̱̦̜̪̘̣̥͖̮̙͓͚̳̣͎́g͠҉̡̘̺̥͍̩̘͚̲͇̰i̶̵҉͖̖͔̻͈̝̞͎̥̣̳̳̳̩̺̜͔v͏̷̻͙̫͙̬̹̻̗̟̥͕̩̟͈̦̦͎e̸҉͏̰̼̬̼̪̝̝s͏̙͓͙͚̘̩͙ ̡̫̹̹͚͉͍̜̣͜͠͝m̢̧̤͇̗̤͓͖̦̫̀͞͡e̷̸̶̡̛͔̭͓̰͈̤̰̭̖̳̜̙̱ͅͅ ̱̹̙́͘͜ͅs̡͙̠͎̠͓̬͉̹̙ͅo̴͖̘̠͔̝̦m̸̷̪̙͇͖̼͉̮̼͈͔͚̼͍̪͢͝ͅę̵̱̜̺̫̟̗̟͉̝̤̪̀͜ţ̸̛̹̲̗̜̹̱̺͞h̺̹̬̫̜͜͢͞í̡̗̖̭̪͓̬͖͖̫̙̭̮̯͙̦̘͍͠ͅņ̧̲͈̹̲̜̣̥g̞͈̜͉̰͉̦̹̬̳̬͕̟͘͝ ҉̟̙͓̘͚̘̭́i҉̲̫̠͚̯͔͍̝̯̭̗̯̟͈͉̞ ̵̧͎̞̞͉͖̥̯̠̥͔̯t̢̢̛̘̗̣̤͉̬̘̙͈̙̪̤̯̰͝͠è̶̶̜͇̫̗̕n̡҉͎̗̫̖͉̬̳̙̲̼̤͈̲͍̝͔̩̫d̖̙̙̤͜͡ ̩͖̼̙̝͕̜͉̰̠̤̀͢t̸̥̤̣͉̘̟̠̱͢o̷̖̙͚͇̳͔̫̳̖̞̟̗̬ ̡̪͔̙̺̜͓͠u̢͙͈̟͟ͅn҉͖͕̳͇̫͎̩͕̭͕͈͕̰̮̥͔͇́ͅd̨͚̳̫̹͓̭͉͘͢͜͡e̛̱͕͓̩͠r͏̖̼̱̺̜̣̦͓̪͍̰͚̳̻̰̮̥͙̻͞s̵̸̛͜͏͙̲͙̯͙̯̞̫̼̟̫̻̝͔̦̰t͏̮̫̙̻̤͇͖̞͚̞̪̜̟̩͖̻a̷̡̭̠̺̬̭̞̖̪͞͝͞ń̴̴̤̖̬̣̺̥̤͔̩̟̦̖͕̜͞͡ͅd̶̵̺̳͍̝̦̱̟̦̲̹̙͇̪̰͖̥́̕ ̛͚̰̦̦̗̗̯̯̮a̷̼̜̻͈͇̕ͅs̨̡̱̗̖̪̜͇͓͜͢͝ ̬͙̲̞̫̕͜͜h̡̜̱͎̀͜a̧̹̬̲͈̠̱̦̱̤̖̕͢͡p̨̧̜̯̣̪̭̺̼̭̖͚̀ͅp̢̲̪͈͓̮͔̥̙͉̫̳̟͞ͅi̧̮̪͎̥̭͈͇͉̠͖̱͙̻͠ͅn̕҉̟̦̼̻̖͚͕͕̹̦̗̥͕͇̼̺̲͉̲e҉̨͇̲̫̭̥̠̠͎͙̖̜͕̙̞͙͢͞ͅś̴̢͏̙̝̯͖̼̫͚̭s̶̵͎̠̟̬͓͉̰̦̬̰̥̜̖̘̗̤̻͡͝.̨͞͏͕̟̗̜͚̰̟̼͇̜̟͙̤̀  
҉̢͙̻̮̻͈̹̹͎̰̟͔͖̦͝͠ǫ͜҉̧͇̖͚̳͉̯̪̫̗̼͔̙̗͚̙̖͍r͏̶̨̻̪̠̻̟̟̲̰̪͞ ̶̢҉͖͓̲̼͇̳̜͓̼̻̲̹͓̙ͅl̫̩̰̲̘͍͕͍͞͞ͅǫ̸̫̬̳͔̱̲̰͍̪͈̪̰̭v̧̻̤̟͉́ḙ̙̲̪̻̼̻̘͉̠̟̭͟͢.̶̸̢̘͚̩͎̣̜̼͈̜̭͈̖ͅ ̸̼̥͇͔̹͓̮̜̺̻͖̗̮̮͔͇̤̱̼͢͝͡l̴̷͡҉̮͔͍̣͟i̧̯̬͔͚͉̗̠̪̤̹͓̘͘ķ̴̛͠͏̜̣̝̺̙̪̬͚̗̘e͘҉̝̫̳̳͟ ̴̞̣̥͙̣͝w̩̣͙̘̫̱͇̪̬͓̲̺̝͟͜h̨̘͓̲̜̝̦̫̳̼a̵̤̦̖͇͕͚̣̬̘̱͕̹̳͡͡t̴̡̜̞̫̖̮̗͔́͠ͅ ̶̺̱͈̪̺̦̤͍̰̻͎̠̳̭́͡͡ͅg̷̷̢͇̳̥̗͉̠̬̙̲̻̪̟̺̲̼͘͞o̸̮̟̟͙͈̤̳͇̪͍͎̘̲̻̮͝d̵̶҉̩̖̖͎̫̹͎̭͉̹̣̗̤̗ ̨̦͎̟̘̼̥̺̥̫̙́f̷̸̡̛̦̙̞͙̯̼̖͕e̖̯̣̮̤̥͙̱͎̲̬̳̟͈͖̩͘͢͠e̕҉̲̘̖̮͖̣̻̤͇͓̫̮͇̠l̸̢̖͇̼̗̥̲͍͙͍̀͢s̷̢͙̗̬͙̬͡ ̷̴̠̳̘̖̤̞̞͎f̵̲̳̮͇͖̺̕͝o҉̸̦͙̪̰̙͙̕͠ͅr̜̳̝̩̩̗͙̥̣̗̞͘ͅͅ ̶̵͙̱̩̮͍͍͙͎͎͚͘͜s͏̩̪̥̮̤̮̯̩̰͟͟h̸̖̻̦̗̩͇̮̀͜͢͠a̴҉̗̳̜͕̲̼̲̜r̸̢͏̡͇̯̜̫̞̟̺̙̲̦͠ͅk͍͖̝̰̝̝̪̘̣̗̹̘̞̣̣͘͘͞y̨͎̠̟̪̺͙̬̖̰͎͍̥͈̦͖̫̼͡ͅ ̨̡̪̟͖̕͜a̸̞̫̫̯͇͖̙͡n͏̶̗̥̳̹̣̝͉̪́͠͠ͅd̴̵̢̗̻͙̝͇̗̜͈̙̹̭̩̗̻̱͇͜͠ͅ ͏̸̣̟̼͇̤͚̮̺̞̹́n͢͏̦͎̗̘͈͍̞o̶̫͙͉͕t̶̴͈̥̜͙̮̮̯̭̳ ́͡͏̺̜̪̗͇͙͙͚̮̠͎ḿ̢̩̥͕͖̺̤̫̫͓̪̗̬͖̤͔̤͘͠͝e͡͏̸̷̝̹̮̱̖̺̤͉͔̖̳̠͈̺̰̯̙͓̘.̶̧̗̜̟̭̠̪̦͖͜͢͠  
̢͎̺̖̫̮̤͢  
̡̜̪̺̬̳̘͍͜͝  
̰̺͉̘͍̗͙̹̘͓͜͢  
̷̸̨͇̘̤̻͈͍͕̻̬̘͔̗̖͓̀́  
̡̳̻̠̠̺̱̼͍̼͔͎̖͙̼̼͈͓̫͠ͅ  
̷͔͇̫̗͍̫̘̭̹̝͇͕̭͘͝ͅí̡̧̺̗̲̬̬͙͕ ̵̜̫̪̦̠̕͟͟͡ͅf̯̩̜̳̜̲̞͙̝͟͠͡i͏̶̹̥̮̹̱̩͚̥̮͍n̩̩̟͠d̶̨̧͏̸̤̗̗͕̝̞͍͖̪͚̙̗̳̠ ̛͉͈̬̠͖̲̮̗͡m̧͓̗̻̦̰̪̘͈̗͚̗̲̩̹̫̰̳͢ỳ̵̫̮̖̠͉̮̤̪̼̕͟͡s̵̶̷̢͎̤̼̘͈͔̺̦̼͖͢e̵̡̛̱͙͉̻̼̞͖̮̗̪̻̹̳̣̤̹̣̫͡͡l͏̨̛̮͈̳̣͍̱̙͉͓̫͈̼͇͍̤̲̳͖́͢f̢̧̤͈͇̙̮͉͔̩̹̥́̕ ̴͕̟͕̳͍̜̝̬̣̖̬̣̹̠̺́͢͟͞ͅę̥̤̝̝̩͍̹͔̺̼̗͈͘͡ͅn̴̨͏̷̨͔̼̜͍̘̠͈̞̥ṯ̛͍̜̞͖̖̲͍̠̟̜̝̝̯̪̲̕͠ͅe͙̲͖̙͚̠̙͓̲̱͕̭͈̳̯̱̩͕͜r̶̡̀͏̲̤̩̰͇̱̮͓į̸̹̜̭͖̰̝̼̘͈͚̙̥̩̳͎̩̮̕͜ņ̹̭̜͖̦͇̞̬̜̳͈̙͉͟g̸̥̠͕͎̞͈͖̣̕͢͢͡ ̷̴̨͎̮͙͇̬͕͟͠ͅA̷̶̛͙̝̲͕͕̳̤̱̦̹͜͠ͅr͉̫͕̥̙͎͟͞t͏̧̼͈̭̝̬̮̯̀͝h͖̱̹͓̕̕͢ͅu̷̷͜҉̥̯̯͓̯̤͞ͅr̵͓̙͍̭͙̳͙̣͓̰̬̭͢͠'͞͝҉̲̣͉͈͈̯̯̰͔̯̖͓̩̭͟ͅs̝̞̩̦̤͕̬͝ ̸̸̹͍̠̞̤̭̟d̶̢̝̞̖͈̼̬̻͈̦̪̰̭̰̺͝r̷͇͍̘̯̦͈̩̣͘͝͞ḙ͚̯̫͔̻͉̀͢a̶̡͎̲͉͇̟͎͖m͢͏̧̪̬̩̻̟̙̭̀̕s̨҉̼̲̰̰̺̦̯͇̺̳̥̥̼̟͖͚̻̣͢ ̥̖͓̯̗͕̹̻̞̩́̕͝͡ͅa̢͇͚̳͇̱̥̱̟̬̖̥̟͟͢n̶̜̤͍̯̹̦̖̹̞̖̦͍͔͉͝d̢͘͡҉̨͇̯̣̝̖̯ ̛͏̵̶̷̳̗̺̥̲̫̯͖̘̱̻͔͚̫̮̺̺ͅͅc̨̛̫̫͍̤͓̟̪̮̪̘ụ̴̸̢̻̲̞̥̩̬͇̻̩̤̫̬̜͝ͅͅͅţ̛̣̗͉̠̣̣̝̩̟̹͍̹̻ͅţ̴̧͚̺̟̺̱̞̫͉͚͉̩̰̖͖̳̙̕ͅͅi̢̧͇̭̤͓̘̰̘̙͇̠̪n̸̨҉̶̺̥̗̹̭̻̻̲̭̙̹̠g̟͓͇̫͉͚̦̙̗̪̜͓̹̰̟̬͘͘͜ͅ ̢̨̨̗̫͔͔̀o̸͏̝͖̞̫͓͓̙̻͈̭͙̲̰̲͈̱̭̝ͅf̶̨̗̻͔̦̞̝͉̹͈͟f͇͚̼̫̙̺͝͝ ̧̛̺͔̳͖͈͈̱̦̟̯̞̣̟͇t̕҉̛̩̯͓̜͇͉͚͍͍͍͔h͏̛̲̙̱̪͕̖̫̬̠͓e͢͏̥̬̜͚̝͓̩̰̙̘͉̖̠ ̶̧̰̗̘̫̺́ś̶̨̯̫͙̝͍̗̬̱̝͢͞ķ̗͓̦̲̭͎̤̳̤̱̺̟̥̱͘i̷̯̱͍͉̭̙̩̝̼̫̰̳̖͍̟͕͕̖̻͟n̛҉̷̦̜̯̝͓̼͓̯̪̹̼̟̹̮͙ ̵͟͏̛̼̘͖̜̟̦͖͔̱͉̫̻̕o͝҉̸͡҉̟̻͍̺̙̞̗ņ̢͏̧̬͖̜͔͍̭̠̣̬̣ ͏̶̡̖͍̩͖͖̟͎̫͔͘ͅḩ҉̶̖̖̯̟̗͕̬̳͕̝̩̪̹̙̤̲̠͇ͅị̵̻̼̗̥̭̭̠̜͍̀͘͘ͅs̵̷̳̳̤̳͎̯̬̙͔͈͕͈̺̻̀͘ ̴̛͇̳̦͖̣̤̥͙̖̪̣͉͕͚͈͖̱́̀͟ṕ͡͏͍̪̭̰̥e̷̝̣̯̳͇̺̮̪̹͇n҉̵̶͙͉̝̲́͠ḭ̶͇͕͍̟́͜s͉̹̲̖̲̭̮̞̫̺̀͠.̧̛̥͎̭̭͔͞  
̲̻͇̖̮̬͉͉͚͘̕Ą̶̹̲̜̜̥r̵̖͚̞͉̖̭̣̺͖͜͠t̵̷̢̢͙̯̜̼̪̺̜̜̭̫̱̙̟̺̱̙̠͡ẖ̢̰̖̤̤̥̖̱͘ṳ̥̼͍͚̥̹̳͔̼͢͜͡͝r̡̹̻̞̹̱̮̖̤͚̼̲̜̲͙ ̴̢̢̧̰̗̬̟̭̫̮͢i̡͈̘̬͎̤̪͚̖̮̯͘͢͡ś̛̰̳̳͓͇͇͖͍̹͞͡ ̵҉̸̡͖͈̘̲̘̜͜h͜͟҉̸͏̯͔͈̩͎͙̲͎̯̹̼͉̘͍̲̖̠̺a̴̵̵͈̻̞͓̼̖̩͚̞͡͞ͅņ̭͎̠͉̳̼̙͈͔̺͕̱̣̦̭̥̕͜͝ͅd̗͙̱͈̬͇̯̀͘͜ś͘̕҉̺̫͇͚̻̪̙̳͙͙̮̱̠͚ó̱̩͕͙̞m̸̨̤̮̦̺̠͉̖̙̩͢e͏̶̡̙̮̻͎̗̺̼̩͈͢ ̶̢͈̯̜̺͘à̵̧͓̞̱͈̭͓̬̺̪̬̥̲̮͉̗͉̀n̢̲̖̺̞d̴̛͚͉͙̞͓̞͎͘͢͜ ̨̨̛̖͈̹͚̻̼͉̦̗͈̩̥̠ͅs̸͖̬͇̭̼̠̬̞̗̼̀w̨̭͔̪͉̫̱̯̠̭͕̟̼̝̼̘̼͔͞ę͡͡͏̫͖͕͈̻͕e͏̴̹̠͇͎͓̪̦̺͕͈̪̖̤̖͙̳́͢t̨̨̢҉̗̗͍͙̞̠̲̩͚̝̲̺ͅ.̡̡̰͕̦̪̘̘̀̕͡ͅ ̨̡͈͕̲͇̯̯̳̲̹͉̻̪̠̲͔̀͠í̺̟͓͟͟ ҉̜͙̺̤̣͓̣̲̫̩̬̺͍͜l̶̨̧̻̪̗̞͎̫̥̳̤̳̪͜͟į̼̙̙̪̰̤̣̲̥̦̝̥̘͍͇̲̹͔̕͟ķ̹͙͉̭̀̀͡ȩ҉̷̵̲̺̞̙̘̦͇̟͖̠̘̤̮͇͓͚͔ ̡̨̘̝͔̦͇̼̯̯̣̹͡ͅh̜̺̤͚̩̦̞̮̞͚̞̯̖͇̣͘͜͝i҉̣̤̝̫͙̱̯̞̠̹͓͇͓̞̯m̸̧͉͉̠̀.̵̨̣͔͇̱ ̷̨͇̹͎̩͚̗í̵̴̡̤̼̟̥̘͙̗̳̙̗̕ ͉͍̰̯̪̰̳̤͘w̵͚̭̼̣̯̤̕͜͝i̧̢͖͎̦͍̜̥̱͢s̨̘̜̗̗̻͟h̡͉̖͔͙̝͖̪̣͍͘̕͝ ̛̣͉͔͔̳̖̖̙̹̲̟̟̳́ͅì̶̶̡̧̪̖͉̤͈̹̖̬͔͉̦ ̸̡͓͍̱̤͉̗̣̮̠̫͉̤̮̟̜̪̀͘͘ͅc̢̨̦̤̦̪̰͖̦̻̩̪͖͓̩͢ǫ̢̪̙̲͎͠͡ṵ̶̶̻̼͈͈̼͟ͅl͏̸̞̺͖̦̣͍͕̟̝̹̱̩̻̪͇d̝͍̩͖̦̟̼̭͖͕̣͍͈͎̦̠͘͝ ̸̧͉̘̦̟̗̗̩͈͍͚͈̻̱͖̞͕͔̰̝͢c̶̖̼͈̱̮̠͕̙͔̮͉̬̝̜̱̻͓͠o̴̵̪̼͚͖͖͖̣̻̭͈̪̺̦̱̹̥̕͜n̷̵͏̞͕̥͇̹̻͠s̠͈̫̥̟̖̮̮̗͓̬̝̕ͅì̡͖͉̼̥͔̣͍͓͍͓̼̗̺͉͈̪͝͝ͅͅḑ̸̰̦̹͓͈͞ḙ̵̜͖̼̙͎͖̱͖̙͔̯̞̫̰̪̜́̕ͅͅr̵̢̺̬̗̯͚͇̝̜̲̦̬̳̪̝̭͢͡͠ ̶̷̦̥͎̹͉̯̫͓̺̣̥̦̯͢h̸̨͇͖͕̭̘͓̟̫̱i̛̤̟͕̹̯̫͝͞ͅm͜͜҉̵̵̞̗̰̪͚̝͍̙̯̻͔̞̲͔͇͍ ̸̧̮͇̘̹̩̗̩͔͓͈͕̟͙͘ͅá̸̸̧̹͇̦̝͍̝̝͍̠͓̦̼̖͇͚͇͈̥ ̀͏̛̟̟̮̹̯̥͍̘̠͉̘̠̳̮̭́f̷̵̫̭̻̻̮͍̝͚̩̬r҉͔̘͎͕͍͈͓̥̺͍̘̭͘į͈͇̥̹͟ę̶̼̬͍̙̭̳n҉̢̛̣͍̘̲̟̹̺̤̠͜d̶̴̟̰̗͕̤̯̠͙̪̫͍͔̗̫̥͟͡ ̢̜̻͚̜̫̠̙̞̲̝͡b҉̵͏̴̼̤̼̲̭͎͖̼̜͇͕ų̷̵̧̗̻̯̲͕̗ͅt̶̢̮͕̩̪̠̞͚̲̺̩͍̯̳̤͉̀͞͝ͅ ̸̴͉͇̫̪̞̝̞̱̣̙̜̺͕̘̣͉͎̘͞i̵̡͕̳̲̻̟͇̼̱̞͕̫͇̞̞̯̥͙̻ ̸̢̜̖̜̟͎̦͖͓̹͇͓̫͟d҉̶̛̹̪̯̰̤͍̜͍̤̩̭̥͕̙͓̝͙̻́͝ǫ̗̗̭̪̯͇͓̙̳͚̝̭̬̮͠ͅͅn̨͎̟̼̩̤̫͙̯̫̬̰̞̙̗͎͘͟ͅ'̶̷̴̶̨̰̝͉͖̟̯͔ͅt͜҉̶̮͖̼̗͝.̸̴͉̲̟͚̳̝̺͖͕̮͝͝͝ ̵̵̧̺̖̬̹͜͜ͅí̛̳̭̺͖̭͓̳̞̥̳̦̜̜͈̳́ͅ ̷̷̥̞̪̯͖̙̮̺̳̙ͅc̡͜҉͔͎̬̱̤̺̱̗u͠҉̞̥̫̼̬͎̺̟̻͉̠̥̝̗̫̰̯̳̲͞t̸̴̥̭̣̼̪̠̜̥̞̮̣̲̕͠͠ ̥͍̯̪͘͢͝͡͠t̶͘҉̞̘̟̻̲͍̟̳̥͎ḩ̛̹̯̼͓̼̬̟̀͟͡ę̹͕̮̗̮̜̝̖̗͠ͅ ̲̗̯̭̰̜͚͞͞s̩̱̜̹͈̳̗̕͟ķ̖̝̭̭̦̼̺̱͓͚̺͙̝͔̞͔̘͝í̶̠͙̣̪̤̥̣͖̩̪̻̯̮͡͠ͅn̛҉̻̫͙͓͎͖̟̣̣ ̴̛̲̲̠̱̼̳̰̱͉̗͔͘ͅͅo̵̶̡͔̞̥͎̫̱͖̫̤̻̙̘͓̮͎̜͟ͅf̵̶̥̰̪͈͕̬̱͇̭͔̲̻̳̗͞f̷̶͏̣̺͕̜̻̹̻̲̫̼̀ ̧̟̣̯̟̖̝̮̪̥͔̟͍͘͡ͅh̢͔̦͎͔̯̱͖̭̙̟͜ͅí̛̮̖͔̗͍͓̪̰̕̕͡ś̷͢͏̶͎̙̳͙̤̟̣̦̭̯̺̹̹̠ ̡̧̰̼̝̰̱͙̬̪̰͙͙͞͡p̸̶͕̬̖͓̼͙̀e͏̢͔͇͈ṋ̷̢̝͜ͅͅí̵͓͍̣̝͙̩̥̭̮̣͓̩̯̯͙̠ś̢̠̳͓̦͖̳̩̦̥̫̝̞̙̫̗̕.̶̢̹̙̜̻̪̻̘̻͖̹̩͈̞͕͎̰̫̝͜͠  
̘̗̤͚͈̹̝̝̗̝͔̞̖̙͞  
̷҉̧͜҉̤̹̟̼̟̼̟̲  
̶̛̛̞̹͚̲̣͈̬̫̗̞̠̫̞͇̜͙̣͉͠  
̴̭̲͉̘̥̪͚̗͓̼̹͡  
̗̥̖͙̭̻̰͍͈̣̪͎͖̝̟̱͢͟ͅ  
̨̝͇̜͎̹̤̟̰̬̤̰̘̤̖͘͟͟ͅg҉̶͙̲̖͕͍̟̻̩̹͍̤̗̭o͝͏̛̼͈̗͇̖͔̘͞d̨̕͏̨͔̳͎͈̪̯̠̹ ̵̢̜̲̩̣̼̟̤̦͖̙̥̼͚͚̗̩͍̹ͅt̨͘͏͓͎͖͔͍͈͔̣͉̳͢ͅe̴͍̬͓̹̜̹͓͕̦͝ͅͅl҉̨̰͔̻̝̣͎̳̣̭̫l͏̵̶̧̜̻̯̠͇̙̫̤͡ś̢̧̨̻͉̭ ̢̼̹͓͈̝̘̟͙̜̕͡ͅm͏͕͉̺̪͓̼̖̙̻̮͚͇͖͇͟͜ḛ͓̜͇̻̜̻̫͓͝ ̶́͜͏̧͈͇̦̥̳͕̯ͅẉ̥͔̤̖͚̱̘̕ȩ̥͚̲͇̙͎̟̼̞̰̫͈̕͟'҉̷̶̞̪̠̬̗̘͕͖͘ŗ̶̟̟̯͚̞͎͔͇͕̲̫͔̗é̷͟҉̗͍̙̩̩̰̬̺͕̲̩̖͈̩͎̩ͅͅ ̪͓͙̜̤̯͉̪̗̬͍͇̠͍̜͘͢ͅh̴͢͏̯͉͚͖͖̫̫̳̣̖͎͈͓̗͍̼ą̸̢̞̝͙̮̫͝͠v̨̨̖̩̪̯̹̣͇̭̤͙͙́͡i̴̪̝͖͉̟͠n̨҉̨̱͔̬͈̻̘̗̤̘͍̮͝g̩̼̪̟̺͜ ̷̢̥̪͓̹͇͚͉͕̫̰̤̲̳̤̰ͅa̵̧͎̖̤̤̳̫͢͟ ̢̕҉̶̴̻͖̤̼͎͕̯ṱ̶̢̡͍͇͕̭͚̤̣͚̦̜͉̠̱̳͜͝ͅe̷̙̳͉͓͕͔̮͖̹̻̳͔͘̕͞͞a̴̷̧̰̤̮͜͜ ̸̴̨̟̩̰̭̩͇̘̪̕͠ͅṕ̗̜͉͚͙́̕͢ͅa͞͏͔̹̭̲̦̦͙̯̲͔͍͉̯̗͓͈́ŕ̵̶̛̛̼̩̣͔͚̭̰̟̖͕̱̪̬t̸̢͙͈̩̝̘̜̥̜̱̘̙̭͙̠̲̹͉̫͕͡͠y̶̤̝̼̝͇̳͍.̴̥̥͙̹̺̙̺̜͉̫͍̜͕͖͘͞  
͏̸͇̲̩s̸̛̪͉̺̤͙̬̫̞̲͍̜͔͍͙̦͔͖̀͠͝h́͟͏̞̝̞̫̦͚̬͖͈̰͇͙̮͙̱è̢͡҉̖͈̱̝̰̗̰͈̻̤͚̲̲͉ͅ ͟͠͝͞҉͈̫̥̻͍̪͖̠̟̺͚̖̙͔̼̟̞ͅa̶̵̢͍̬̹̲̜͇̻̥̳̝͢s҉̧̖̬͉̤͇̼̬̻k̨̟̰̝̫̟̩̜̪̰̝̮͖͓̦͇̯̦͜ś̗̜̳̬͇̲̺̞̮͚̫̗̗̘̞̟̦͈͉͘ ̨͈̫̮͍̜͇̰͓́͝͠͝m̴̼̘͚̱̣̜̞̞̯̲̕͟ͅe̢̯͖̦̦̝̹̰̭͙̰̩͉̘̝̰͢ ̴̧̯͇̼̻̻̩̻̼͔̬͎͕͉̲͝͡͞ͅi͉̲̯̺͇͠͡f͜͟͜͟͏̮̺͖̜̼̦͇̲̙ ̶̡̜̯̜̲̤̙͓͍̺̲̝̮̦s̛̻̼̹͎̣̗̬̱̠̝͚̯̀͘͢ḥ̶̡͖̖͚̣̠̥̦̙̣̪͙̀e̸͓̻̦̞̭̪̥̼͉͔̥͕̤ͅ ̨̱͇͈̱̗̫͉͉̟͎͔͓͔͞͝ͅc҉̨̼͔̱̰̫͉̙́̕͜a̴̧͉̦̞̪͍̜͇̲̙̭̩͖̯͉͇͙ͅn̡̦͍̙̪̝̮͙̳͔͙̠̱͖̟͙͙͜ͅ ̡͔̤̣͉̫̪͍͔̹̹͉̞̜͇͇̫͙̀͡m̸̛͇͈̘̠͕̩̭̣á̡̮̭̠̫̰̘̱̞̀͜͜ͅk̸̸̩̘̟̺̝͓̬͖̝̱̺̯̤ͅe̸̙̲͕͈̹̺̞͈̖͇̝͘ ̢̡̘̭̱͓̼̖͍̩̀͜p̸̶͔̳̺̹̺̻̮̰e̸̢͖͉̟͠e̷̱͓̗̤͉̲͞p̸̧̲͙̭͓͈͈̕͘̕e҉̷̹̞̰̤̗͇̬͚̠e̹̠͕̲̻͓͎̪͎̜̖̭̘̦̣͕̟̟͢ͅ ̷̟̼͉͔̖̥̼̭͍́̕i̴̧̡̛̹̬̜̘̜̜̬̠̘̭͞n̶̴̨͖̩̬̹͈̻͇̖͍̬̠͈͇̮͇͕͙̘͘͡ ̴̧̜̰̮̲̪͇̗͖̺͖̫̺̜̥̬͓̜̞̕͜m̨̮͔̭̝͖͎̬͈̹̱̗̳͔̯͍͈̩͔͟ỳ̵̡̰͙̼͓͍̰̮̠͇̤̦̻̕͜ ̸̶͚̬̖̻̮̤̞̜̟̱̬͔t̨̧͙̯̗͓̫̹̪͈͉͝ȩ̵̳͉̠̳̥̕͢ą̵̺̮̳͉̩̺̟̜̬̯͉̜̩͚͘̕͢ͅͅ ̢̙͖̫͙̱̀͢͝a҉̨̝͚͖͘͠n̢̛҉͍̻̯̫̝͈͉̩̥̗͈̩̲̠̲̮̞̮̕͜d̼̯̻̟̭͙̩̦̯̳͔̀͘ ͢͏̧̛͏̻̼̖͖̹̻i̸͔̗̜͖͖̻̙̩̘̰̥͍̯̰̞͙̫͟ ͍̰̮͇̝̭̱̜͇̘̥̗͍́s̨̨̡̼̥͙̮͚̘͓̺̺̩̘̪͕̤͉͜ͅͅa̲̪̤͔̻̻̘̳̣̬̙̳͈͓̻͠y͇̟̙̦͎̯̳̭͟͢ ̸͞͏͖̥͈̯̯̜̮͕̩̻̥̞͖̮̠̣̬̮̫͞ǫ̫͎̝̙̖̜̭̫̬̗͘f̶̡̠̘̬̥̲̠͡ ̸͚͎̰̙̮͚͖̦̗̮́͠͞c̸̸̨̫̥̥͚͖̪̱̟̦̮̫͢͜o̴̡͙͚̻̠̬̤͜ͅu͈͖̘̘̣͡͞r͏̷̵̲̭͉̫̺̜͎͈̥̪̗͚̟̜̝͢͠s̨̠̗̭̘̭̹̳̀e͏̟͔̦͓̖̠̲̲̀́ ̮̺͓̜̬̳̕͟͡b̢̜̖̪̖̥͘ͅe҉͏̯̣̱̻̠̮͎̱̙̪̹̩̝̗̱̣̘̟̩c̢̙͔̬̞̜͓͍͎̲͚͡ͅa̢̮̠̯̦̗͖̞̼̺̥̗̤̮̮͖͈͞ú̸̹̞̻̗̭̹̪̺̠͔̫͕͔͎͘͢͡s̸̲̙͎̳̠̭̤̥͈͞ͅe̛͔̝̲̭͙͍͙͚̰̰͞ ̺̗͖̳͔̙͈̙̹͡ì̛̛͝҉͎͓̙̖͉̙͉̪̳͎̝͖̪͔̼̘̮̯ͅ ̸̷̛͕̪͈͔̝̠͍͖̗̞̤́͝h̸̢̻̱̳̞̭̫̼̖͓͔́͟͠a̶̢̛̤̲͓̞̣̩͠v̮̞̙̹̞̺͎̣̩͈̖͎̰͍͔͟͡ͅe̸̥̟̤̯̻̲̱̕ ̷͍͙͇͙̹͉̪̦̗̩̩̪̮̪̥̫͕͇̕͞n͢͡͏̩̹̭̺͖̻̪̯͈̰̞̣o͙͈̼̙͎̰͓̻̻̪̮͎̫͜͠͝ ̷̛͢҉̙̯͕̜͈̬͘ò͏̠͚̯̙͖̠ţ̵̻͕̭͍͓͝͝h̹͕̮̘̟͎͍̼̲͖̠̤͍̗͈͕̰̣͘͜e̴̻͙̹̙̖͍͔̲͓̣͖̥̩̲̻͔͘̕ŗ̵̵͈̖̼̯̞̩̤̥͖̘̩͈̭͍͖́͞ͅ ͏̻̠̤̥̪̼ó̸͍̠͈̹͚͈̲̞͟͡p̢͍͇̬̜͓͇̬̻͢͡͡t͏̷̫͈̻̰̻̗̩̙i̵̶͓̙̫̭̳̖͙͓̺̜͕̫͕̯̭̻̣͘̕͡o̵̢̞̰̬̱͔͔̺͙͍̣̣͇̤͎̟͕͉̲̥n͏̶̼͎͖̣̖̟͙ͅ ̷̶̬̤̱̦̞͠͠ą̢͓͔͍̪͈̖̦̝̠̥̹̦̤͕̤͉̕͞n҉̸̗̬̘̙̙͔̹͎͚̼͘͝d̸͇̟̣̬̪̻̻̹͓̹̪̘͢͞ͅ ̵̷̧҉̦̼̯͖̣̮̳ͅș̛͉̩̫͖̦̤̪̻͈͔͘͜͜ͅͅh͞͏̸̙̞͇̙̪̯̻̹̫̣̰͎͖̹̱e҉̬̤̮͎̭̺̙̬̤̹̟͈̩̣̳̩͎̘͜ ̶̡̧͖͚͍̰̹͉̺ś̰̮̠͚̬̟̙͍̟̖̞̰̳̯͘͠q̴̡̣̝̥̞͓͕͇͍̟͔͔̣̙̱͟ͅu̵̧͠҉̜̬̬͉̰̗͔̼̜̜̘͓͉̣͘a̶̡̗̮̲̭̖͜t̷̖̼̞̯͎̼̜͙̘̟̭̼̦̫̙̩̬̹̗̕͢͠͞s̡̗͓͎͎͘ ̗͖̳̺͍͖̗̯̫͓͉͉͕͎͙͘͢͞ͅó̷̴̢̰̪͕͕̪̠̯͖͓͘ͅv҉͏҉̖̭̹̦̣͉̙̙̤̯̗ͅé͜҉̴̪̦̟͇͚ͅr̵̵̢͚̺̲͈̤̞̩̱̻͘ ̷̵̶̫̘̣̩̬͓̳̬̝̯̥̀͘à̶̷͈̠̻͓̗͔̘̯̺̥̜̠͕͙͈̫͍͝ ̨̥̣̩̫͉̳͔̤̻̹͓͚̭̪͓̺͇̭͟ͅc͞҉̨̨̦̲͎͇̥͕̼̘̠̰͙͓̜̜̞̣̦͜ͅu҉̛̝̭͚͓̫͎̠̮̣͈͔ṕ̷̶̢͎̳̹̦́.̲̟̺̟̥̹͙̱̲͎̲͔̜̖̩̥̫͢ͅ  
̵̨͖̤̻̮͓̣̲́̕ͅs̻̫̝͙̙͉͓̜̖̯̣͇̬͉̳̦̱͟͡͞ͅh̷҉̞͕̤̫̙̦̫͓̭e̸̻͔̝̟̲̮̭͓̬̙͈̼̫͔̕͠ ́͏̱͎̯̜̞̫͖̻͔̀̀͝h̸͙̜̰͇̘̼̣͈͜͠ͅa̶҉̸͇̠̺̪̹̭̀s͏̷̵̴̲̝͖͎ ̶͙̲̘̯̥͙̭̦͚̮̜̺͚̤͘m̖̤̲̮̘̣̪̱̹̪̩̮̙̰̺̀́̕͟͞a͏̸̧̺͕̞͔̺̲͙͓̻̠͇̭̼͘ş͔̗͈̘͕͉́͞t͏̴̦̰̳͚͎̮̲͙̲͙͇̥͇̟̙̥̮̗͝͞ͅe̢̳̮̹̬̤̪͕͘͜͝r̵͔̖͈̯͎̣̪̘̬̱̻̳̳͎̙͞͠ỳ̧̢̠̼̝̖̻͎͓̠̤̱͇ ҉̵͔͖̬̣̫͇̙̹̖̱͖̀͜͢o̢̧̲̼̺͕̭̼̗͚͓͔͈̫̳̗̠̬̲͜v̵̺̥̩̹̟̝̭͖͖̮̰̥̀͜ȩ̠̘͚r̨̭͉̜̻̱̣̺̟̯̳̞̳͚̫̣̳ ̴̺͕͇̫̀͠h̴̨͖̳͓͚̤̺̲͕̲͇͍̜̲͕̜̕̕͡ę̷͙͚̥̻̙̘̱̱͍̖̰̮̬̮͘̕͟r̢̠̭̞̮̞̞̺̰͓̣͎̩͢͠ ̜̺̲̘̳̜̼̰̯͕̫̹̱̭͖̀b͏̲͖̬͕̦̭̕l͏̱͎̩̩̘̪̹͇̜͇͖͍͎̼̱̜͍̰̀a̵̢̡̪̭̬̠͘d̬̞̫̟͕̬̱̼̀͜͢͟ḑ̵̲͓̥̹̤͙͕̫̟̹̺̼̜͕̦̀͢è̵̝̝̲̩͔̳̯͉̹͔̮ŕ̡̢̢͍͍̬̲̝͕͖̼̹̭̘̕,͏̘̗͖̪͈̻͓̫͔̠̗͓̳̮̬͜ͅ ̸̳̲̖̟͎͝ͅņ̖̜̰̘̕͘͟o͟҉͔̞̩͎̰͍̗̼̩̳t҉̪̬̻͖̺͍̥̲͓̯̠̤͞ ́͡҉͔̼͕͇a̴͏̶̧̱͓̺̟̱̠ ̵̷҉̥̫̖̱̫̹̼̖̖̭̹̰̪́d̸̵̢̳̩͎͍̤͢r̢̧̮̼̼̳͉̳̬̼͓̭̰͟͟͢o̠͚̖͚͖̩̲̣̫̻̙̬̣͈̻͠͡p̫̠̣̜͈̘̲͙̯̺͈̩̤̯̥̼͢͟ ̷̨͍̞̰͕͍̖̭̞̩̱̖͙̦̮̣͝͞͠s̸̸̢̡͇̭̦̙̤̞͇̹͇͔̪̪͔̤͎̘͎͍p̴̡̛̱͖̼͕̮̪i̸̝̞͉̮̫̘̠̬͕̭͜l̴̢̧̬͓͙͓͉̠̮̯̮̲̞̞̞͖̼̤̥͡͡ͅl̶̼͇̣̙͔̞͕͖̱͍̮̱̠̻̞̗̰͝s̳̙̯̰̩̜͍͎̀͘͘͝.̷̷̧͙͍̫͚̫̞͕̯̘̙̯̥͔͢ ̴̢͚̩̼̭̙͇̳͇I̪͕̺̗̩̙̮̥̺͠͞ ̧͏̪̰̬̦ą̡̢̛̬̫̥̠̩̹͎̗̰͎͈̯̤͖̣̟̀m̗̳̖̻̤̤̱͚͓̥̀͞ ̰̖̣̥͚͢͠ŗ̶̠͉̺̪̺̻̗͖͎̭̮̜̩̘e͓̩̺̠͘͠͞q̷͏̪̰̯̦͓̻͕͍̗̱͔͈̟͘u̢͚̭̗̝̭̗̤͔i̬̠͇̳̲̕͢͜r̠̣̣̯̰̥̞͇͡͡e͜͝͏̳̬̹̜̬̘̜̝̖̼͝ḑ̵͈̖̹̮͕̙͕̮̠̰̠̼̦̖̦͘ͅͅ ̢҉̧͙͚̳̘͉̙̖̣̰̗͝t̵̨̢͚̟̣͍͓̥̹͓̘̗̲͚͇͎͖͖͘ó̡̡̲̠͇̘͢ ̸҉̨͎͙̼̟̫̰̦̞̩̗̗ͅr͉͓̝̱̟̳͓̰͚̺̤̳͎͜ͅe̵̻̠̘̜̲̦̗͇̙̦̣͉̮̮͘p̸̶̸̡͚͉͉̻͓͈͇̼͎̟̼̤̠̭̩̲͇̭͢é̪̥̲̲̗͔̠͈̯̮̲̮͔͕͚͘͡͠a̶͔͙̞͔̘̝͡t̵̶̬̘̞̳͔̱͎͓͎̹̭̱̗͈̲̖͇͜͡ ̴̷͏̳͙̩̠͚̦̟̪͉͉͔̩͙̲t̢͎̞̲̝̮̺͖̠̪̘͎̳͚͓̲͈͘̕͞h̢̟̖̯̱͞͞i̷̷͚̹̦͎̪̼͉̜͕͝ś̴̡̢͎̰̣̟̀ ̧͢҉͏̞̻̼̮̲̲̫̞͈̺u͈̻͎̰̥̹̘̼̳͉̮͔̤̣͍̬̹̗͜͠͠n̵͙͍͇̳͚͠d҉̤̜͉̪͝͠è̦̰͎͢ͅr̨̙͕̱̗̪̗̭͕̖̣͖̀͡͞ ̶͞͞͏̞̫̣̹̟̫̹͚͍̖̱̱͎̰̺͚̣͘N̵̛͟͝͏̪͚̲͙̺͔͉̟͙̳̞̠̦̮̬̼͓̩͈D҉̩͕̠̻̟̹̺̜̪̀A̵̴̖̻̞̹̝̗͎̤̯͈̖̻̲͟ ̛̥̫͕̠̰̦͉̣̣͕̹̺͠ͅl͎̜̖̪͖̭̱̠̬͍͖̼̕a̞̦͙̖̜̕͠w̶̷̖̖͍͔͉̜̻̙͘͝.͏̛͉̮̺̩͟͟͞ͅ  
̨̢̨̼͇͓͇̤̘̳͖͚̻̭͙̦̮̬͇͎̞͞  
͏͙͓͍͙̥͉͉͔̱͕͔̥̦̪͔͖  
́҉̀͠҉͇̘̱̖̟  
̡̡̱̪͉̘͚͕͓̟̺̥̠͎͘  
̧͍̖̬͓̣̠͉͙͕̗̹͖͝  
̢̫̺͍͖͍̬͝͝s҉̥̮̙̳͉̝̥̺͉̹͓̦̩̮̦̟́ơ̪̞͖̜̯̯̘̱͔͚̦̰̲̰͜m͞҉̢̧̨͓̲͔͓̗̲̻͖̯̞̫̭̯̼͓ȩ̵̶̨̭̤̘̩̤̲̹̩̳̠͟ͅṯ̢̯͇̪̹̲̗͈̥̞̭̹̱́i̵͏̢̼̹̳̪͇͓̙̯ṃ̜̺̭̺̝͔̀̕͡͡e͏͏̴̵̨͚͚̮̼͍̠s̢͇͉͇̹͚̳̹͕̺̙͕̲͜ ̵̢͔̙͍̤̹͔̮͡͝ͅi̸͟҉̝̝̫͇͍n̸͘҉̫̖̪̗͈̬̤͍͍͝͞ ̵̶̛̳͇͕͎̻̘̱͙͕̺͓̳͓̻̹͍̼̀͜ͅt̵̷̘͕̱̙͉͖̩͉̗̺̫̺͎͈̲͕̥̼́͜͡h̷̶̷̨̺̼̣̥̫̙̱̱̬̺̲̻͓̺̠̪̭͚ͅe̴҉͈̯̻̩̮͇͎̳̪͖̱̩͇͔͕̜ ҉̵͍̩͇͍̥̣̘̖̦̤̲͈͉̜̻̙̥̭͞͝u̶̵̸͓̩̥̹ņ̥̣̥̗͖̣̞̙̝̜͈̞̝͠c̶̯͍̠͎̩͕̟͈̕͝ͅớ̸̰̱̹̺̯͇̪̫̺̘̘̘̺̪͉̲̠ń̸̢̡͈̖̻͉̖͉̳̯̞͍͢s̡̨̞̤̬̤̱̱̩̮̫͙͉̘̲͇̯͠ç͡҉̛͓͉̭̗̬͈͖͎̳̖͎̺͖͈̣̥̱̺i̷̧͔̳͚̜͚̱̳̕̕͜o̶͚̺͕͙̙̣̦̜͎̥͎̮̝̖͉̻͡ͅù̧̮͚̥͙̝͕̣͇̜̯̳̬͠ṣ̨̜̳͎̖͇̝̖̬͙̼̥̱̦͞ ̢̛͍̜̳͓̲̜͚̲͕d̵͢͏͖͚̥̘̙͉͍̘ͅr̡͎̭̠̙͉e͏̸̴̢͙̖̱̙̬͇̗͙͍̟̦̦͖̼̲̱̣̫̥a҉̛̖̝͉͍͍̼͙̰̬̀m̷̡̢͕͈̫͞s҉̷̧̪͚̝͇̹͍̙̹̭̝̭͕͔͈͇̰̼̖ͅt̡͠͏̻͙̩̫̠̫̺̗̫̟̘a̶̦͈̳̲͙̯̩̱̤̥̻̳͡ͅt̺͉̥̳̪͓͎̯̝͉̬̭͇͘e̵͈̮̖̭͚͖̼͍̜̫̭̪̘͝ͅ ̦̯͕͈̣̥̯̭̭̀͝ó̷͎̻̱͈̯͖̼̦̫͇͇̤͖̥̱͕̻͜ͅf̧̛͙̞͍̼̞̮͉̙̬͙̟̠͘͢ ̷̨̥̩̥̝̻̬̱̝̺̰̻̻ǵ̡͔͍͔̖̱̜͇͍͍͎ọ͉͚̖͡͡d̡͕̹̠͙͍͔̻̩͜ ̧̯͇͙̭͉͕̪͖̳͙̩̱̪̻̙͝ͅì͓͈̩̠͉̬̞̘͔̙͕͡ ͡͏̴̸̠̘̠͈͇͚̭̱͍͍̭̳g̡̢͚̳͈͖̥̳̰͈͜͟e͏̹̦̙̜͔͇͈̗́̕t̶͇̥̭͍̲̞̠̰̠͎̞̳̣ ̻̳̯̞̥̖̗͇͕̬̤̖̯͠t̡̞̯̭̳̲̺̘̖̪̣̙̀́͢ͅͅó̵̼̬̻̜̗͙̭̭͔̟̹̳͈̮̮̻̰ͅ ̶̰͖̯̫̥̱̺̩̙̖͕̠̰̲̪͉͇̞́ķ̧̛̫͈̗̖̟̙͚͉̙̣̤̜͇̠͍͓̫͟͡ͅí̸̦̦̰͎̼͙̕s̸͖͓̳̞̘͠s̶̨̨̜͎̟̗̜̣̫̥͠͠ ̲̰͇̦̟̩̼͈͜͟Á͞͏̶̼̬͔̘̘̩̹̣̥̻͙͘ͅr̨͚̮̖͉̳̱̟͓͖͎̻̲͕̩̝̰ͅṱ̗̠̫͉̬̺͎͇̀̕͝ḫ̶̨̙̻̹̙͔͇͝͠u͞҉̸̯̲̥̯̗̳̪͔̝͈̥̟͔̩̤̞̝͕ṛ̡̧̰͔̻̟͙͖̱̞̰͙̣̦̯̥͢͡ ̶͠͏͏̦̠̱̮̺̞̯͓͇̮̼̝̙̯̝̗̱̳b͏̟̩̞͚̼̠̻̟̮̜̻͙̰͔̤ų̶͍̣̹̼̼̖̯̺͇͜͠t̤̪̹̜̯̱͚̺̦͓̥̪́͟͠ͅ ҉̷̠̙̱̰͖͔̜̦͎̀t̶̠̻͎͈͡ͅh͍͍͖͓͖̞̺̻͎̹͖̣͓̠̫̖̘̀͟͡ͅͅe̵̳̝͓̗̩͙͎̰̯̖̼̺͈̙̭̭͖̟̥͡ ͏̢̤͎̥̪̤̼̞̩̥͕͓̭͎̦͜ͅͅp҉̼͍̖̳̘̰̬͢͠e̸̵̗̜̖̤̝̺̲̱̝͖̦͟͠͡ǹ̩̤͕̖̻̥̤͇̹̼͕͍̱̩͈̟̀͘͡á̶̵̞̥̳̥̪͕̹̀͟l҉̥̘̫̻̞̼̦̣̫̬͍̭̳͔̥̱̙͟͜t̸̩̥̞̬͙͍͇̙͓̭̻͎͙͜͞y҉̢͔̞̪͓̦̖̫͎̻̯͜͝ ̶̶̸͕̰̼͇̪͉̲͘͠f̶̞̝̪̲̘͍́͜͢͝ǫ̞̙͉̣͟͢r̸̢҉̯̘͕͈̖͓̲͚̥̹̬̕ ̟͈̰̝̩̯̬͖͚̟̳̩̗͚̦͠t͕̱͙͍̱͉͇̬̗͙̠̰̠͍̠̻̕h̶̵̶͔̜͉̥͚̱̖͇̝̗̮̰i̵̡̗̪̞̜̙͔̰̹̬̭̮̗̝̻̹͚͈͔͡ͅs҉̩̦͚̙͇̫̺̜̘̻̘̟̹̟͓̥͖̫͠͞͡ ̨̜̮͔͚̜͍͖̲̺͖͍͕̻͠͠i̟̥̰̝͈̥͍̠͍̱̱͖̠͇͖̹̞̫̳͡͡s̶͏͙͇͕̣̯̱̦ͅ ̴̨̪͈̱͓̝͖̩̰͈̜̫̖͙̰͝͡ͅͅq̛̟̱̤̯͔͉͢͟ͅu͏͙̮̫̮͢į̟̬͚̻̯̥͍̹̬̖̞̩t̷̖̬̺̞͔̕͜͠ͅe̲̮̣͕̘̪̹̯͜͞ͅ ̶͚̬̫̙̭̖̞̞̀͢͜s̴̶̱͎̰̰͕̪̹̤̬̮̻̭̼̱̺͜͢ę̸̶̨̳̜̭̺̫̳͔̖̬̺̻͍̖̱͎͚̣͉͝v҉̡͉͔̬̟̱̹̳̥͟͠ͅe͟҉̜̳̙͔͇͕͍̟̖r̢̟̭̫͚̙̼̦̹̪͔̰̮̞̳̘͜͢͠͝e҉̲͓̦͚̭̘̬͢͜.̶̰͕͉̳͈̭̦̦̼̙̱̼̞͢͠ ̡̧̝̥̬͓̕  
̵͏̶̢̘̰̜̳͙̝̘̘͔̘̙̠͉͕͉̜̬͘g̡̡͇̩͎͙̙͍͈̹̠͍̩ǫ͈̹͙͓̘͚̹̯̝͙̀͝d̢̠̥͔͚̪͎͉̙̤̯͢͝ ̛̱̗̫̟͉͍͝ͅi̗̦̻̰̜͎͈̟͎̟̰̕͞s̴̶̨̢̹͚͈̼̬͓̲͖͈͓ͅ ̸̧͕͈͚͚̩̠̞̫̯̪͎̳̠̝̕͘ͅn̴͡҉͇̦͎̦͇͕̦̦͇̦̥͎͔̀͡o͏̗̯̘͚̤͔́͘͢t̸̪̠̼̦̻̲͈̯̯͙͠ ̷̧̛̩̯͙̖͘h̟̯͚͍͖̮͖͍̕͟͡à̺̹̳̩p̸̨̬͔̗̣̫̹̰͕̥͙̻̖̹̹͚̲̖p̷̷̸͙̩͖̲̞̩͜ͅy̨͕̠̠̤͢ͅ ̛̛͞͡҉̥̱̜̺̰̠̥͚̘͚̗ͅẁ̨̩͕̺̦͕̤̻͚̥̥̮͙͢͝h̴̢̧̞̩̬̝͚̗͚̣̘̭͎̫͎̱̣̠e̶̵̛̫̝̹̣͖̗͉̣͓̠͜n̛͏̴̭͇͓̥̖͚̺̗͕̩̤̗͓̺͝ͅ ̣̖̝͓͕͇̟̟̰̣̗͔͎̯̜̝́͞s̨͇̱̲̗̗ẖ̸̨̳̜̹̺̮͙͢͡e̵̶̖̦̖̪͖̼̪̼͢͞ ̶̘̖̮̺͕̹̥̙̰͚̺͚̳̖̙̤̰͟w̷̖̠͈̦͈̟̲̼̠͢a҉̨̻̟͖̮̙̮̭̙͔͕͙̣͠k̡̧̞̻̦̥̬̮̖̩̲̗̠̜̕͟ͅe̴҉̨͚̥̝̝͔͙̪̬̬̭̲̦͍̲̰̪̹̭̲́s̢̛̮̼̙̭̭ͅ,͟҉̨̛̠̙̼̯̤͟ ̷̡̩͙̱̫̦͕̜̮̙͖̞͜i̴̺͙̙͔̝͇̟̭̥͠f̧̛̯̞̣͕̞̹̱̥͇̗̙̜̮̘̪̥ ̛̝̯̤͔̪̩͔̝̮̩̖̘̫͎̪͓͟ͅś̢̙̭͇̥̺͍͉̳͉̤̖̼ͅh̵̶̬̞̹̭̳̪͓͇̺̝̯̳̜̜e̢͓̮̙̪̹̙̞̬̦͘͜͠ͅ ̡̯̝̖̤̖̥͉͉̗̯͔̞̳̟̮̪̀͡ͅr̸͏̡͖̪̭̝͙̰͖̙̝̣̫̤̻̱̘̗é̦͔̣̞̯̕͟m̵̼̙̣̱̝͈̪̺̬͢ͅe̛͏̱̖̜̤͓̙̫̗̼̱̯͓̱̮̤̜̻͙m͏̸͏̡͓̭͈͎̱̞̣ͅb̶̺̘̤̲̪̠̩͚̱̗̝̱̫͘͞ę̲̩͓̼̤̭͇͓̟͖̟̺͙̥͢r҉̷҉͉̘͔̯̘̗͍͉͞s̴̹̬͇͔͎͍̪̺̪̺͘͘͟ ̡̱̰̯̠̤̦̖̲̼̲͇̘̻͔̹͟ͅi̸̴͟҉̝̥̲̫͇̩̟͇̯̥̬͖̼̰̭͙͕̙̤t҉̴̷̧̝̺͎̳̮̞͙̤͕̺̳̲̼̲̞̭̳͕͡ͅ.̨̡͙͙͔̬͎̮̲͉̹̭̲̗͓̮̫̝͓̰̺  
̶̡̡̗̦̫̬͚̮͓̝̗̘̩  
͚̲̰̞͠  
̛͎̹̤̞̘̰̣͍̳̣͕͓͍̪̼̕͠͞ͅ  
̨̭̞̗̯̙̬̫̣͎̮̤̮̻̗̀  
̨͉̯̮̦̥̣͝͞  
҉̮̳͍̙͓͝ş̧̣̥͇̺̝̭̪̤͕̣͎̝̞̲͔̣h͏̴̨̰̫͈͇́͝ͅe̠̦̰̭̠̜̭̪̜̻͘͢͜ ̧̗̺͓̩̗͖̩̱̞̙̮̩͇͕̲͕̘̮͠t̯̘͉̗͎̳̗́͟a̶̷̡̛̼͔̞̳̦̩͕͈̠̪̮̬͎͙̯̤ͅķ̠̥̰̥͙͓̮͈͕͠͡ę̷̶̬͎͈̙̹̠̠̠̠͓̩̞́́ş̵̵̡̥̘̝͖̘̬̞̗̬̝̭̠̖̰̺̮̹̲̯͞ ̵̢̲̱̣͙̀͢͝i͙͙͕͘͟͡ţ̲̩̻̥͉̖̗̻̩͉͙̗̟̯͚̱͘͞ ̦̱̹̥̪̰̤̝̟̫͔̻͍̥̗͈̩̰́͡ǫ̝̝̥͕͉̝̤̹̯̞̞̱̭͇̰̦̺̲̮̀́̕͞ų͏̶͏̘̥̱̱̺̩̬͔̲̹́t̵̛͔̪͕̤̬̝̣̘͔̭͜͞ ̶̶̛̬̻̼̱̥̞͓̫̲̦̦͍̠̳̟̥̦̘̣͞͝o͜͝͏̛͍͈̪͖͎͓̮̬̟͚͎̪͔̝̻ͅͅn҉̵҉̶̖̬̗̱͍̥̙̪͎̳̫͙̹̭̰̬̳͇͘ ̯̬̥͕̙̰̳̞̫͔̫̝͚͎͈͉̫̕͜ͅh̡͙̱͎͙̱̩̩̬̝̝͘͞e̷̖͎̥̠̮̝̫͚͎̰̱̭̫̪͉̣͇͜͞ͅͅr̷̴̨̀҉̟̖͙͈̠ ̶͏̷̻͔̜̭͔̻͔̝͇̗̮̣͞p̨͎̞̺͇̬͙̞̖̩̭͓͉͉̯̟͇̩̪̩͢r̴̺̪͈͎̣͓͍̪̮̠̙̙̱̙͕͔̼͎̜͠o҉̴̛͓̙͕͇̺͎̯͍̲̬̲͚̞̣͇̖̥̰͢͢ͅj̷̸̧͙̻̮͍̭̻̝̬̱̘ͅe̸̱̜͉͕͓̕͜͠c̡̧̟͕͍̼̹̗̘͚͕̠̤̜͕̦͎̗̜̜̀̕͡t͕̙̦̬̣͔̥̺̝̀͞į̶͢҉͍͉͓̼̪̖͉͓̟͇͚͎̗͈͙͔ͅo̸̧̢̡̬͈͈̞̲͚̤̼̠̭͍͞ņ̡̟̙͔͢s̹̳̣̯͍̻̘̦̼͉̕͠ ҉̡͇͖̖̜̳̯̩̭̮̝͉ͅo̢̪͔̙̻̗̱̞͜͟ͅf̸̬̥͎̖̞͙͕̥͉͖͞ͅ ҉̷҉̸̻͓͉̝̠͓͇͍̜̱̤͕͝A̸̡̯͕͖̘̭̮̪̫̳r̸̡̧̡̢͚̳̣̮̼̬͇̲̪̮̪̣̟t̴̶̡̛̖̲̤͇̭̙̝̖h̶͔͔̺͓̳̠̥̣̥̤̪͚̪̖͞ͅu̶̴̧͎̮̜͉͢͝r̴̶̸̡̠̥̗̹̪̰̮͉̖̺͕̺.̸͏̸̵͔̹̖̗̩  
̡̢̡̡̱̘̖͉͎̪̥̼́ͅ  
҉̶̤̩͓̣̗̀͝  
̡̛̺̦̩̬̱͍͢͢͜  
̨̛̀͏̹̪̳̘̙̳͇̭̘̲͈̯̗͖̙̥̞͜  
̧͕̼̬̣̞͓͎h̷̛̺̯̲̜̹̭̠̙̮͓̥̗͓̪͝u҉̛͍̘̺̩̳̯͎̠̣̭̼̼͍̙̩͓͟r͠͏̻͔̹͎͍̝ͅt͏̸͎͔͇̱͉͍̤͔͍̮͕̥̻̬͖͙ḭ̴̶͖͖̼͈̙̻͘͠ͅn̲̺̹͙̹̕͘ǵ̶͈̱͍̗̹̠̯͇͓̦̙͚̺͖̜ ̶̫̪̱̮̮̜͍̳̳̀͜͠h̀͜͞҉͙̫̮͇̝̥̪̼̗͖i̡̳̘͖̤͔͔̞͙̰̰̙̤͎͟͠ḿ̙͎̭͎͚̳͘ͅͅ ̴̧̣̞̯͔̯̕h͍̺̤͎͙̫͢͡u̢̕͟͜҉̫̦̺͍̙r̵̶̡͉̱̞̘̝̟̯̜̼̯̞̬t̬̙͈̟̭́͘͟͞͞ͅs̸̷̨̛͍͕̭͙̟̖͎͔̫͓͍̫͍͖͘ ̡̭̣̹͕̯͇̺̼͚̺͓̯̞m̧̛̘͕̩͉̝̙̮͔̬͇̘̘̹̺̣e̶̢̡̪͔͉̥͞͠ ̴̪͖͎̘̹͙̦̘̳͙́ͅb҉̸̨̢͙̰͈̭͇͘ù͜͏̶̛̥̗̭̖t̵̸̨̜̟͓͉̖͇ ̸̬̠͙͙̥̖͙͈̝n̺͙͇͎̫̙̦͇̥͎̙͓̗͔̫͢͝o̸̶̞͕̺̖͕͕̱̪̬̼̭̕t҉̧̪̼̥̤̰ͅ ̵̵̡͎̙͈̥̝̙̙͚͕̦͍͚͉̹̺̪́q̴̛̣͉͍̤̘̗͙̱͉̜̱͔̠̥u͡҉̤̘̬̞̗̫̻̟͚̟̝͙̗̀ͅì̡̫͓̠̬̼͖̩̼̥͔̖̰̙̬͞͞͠ţ̨̛҉͉͎͕͚e҉҉̳̞̗͙͕̦̗͉̺̮͔̼̩̯ ̨̛̲̩̙̫̞͔̣̳̮̱͓͠͡͝a̵̛̛̜̱̝̳͕̟̯̩͜ͅs̢̛̳̭̥͉̝̞̬͙͜ ̫͚̥͈͇̗͠m͝͏̗̣͇̲͍̮̘̹̙͓̻̼̦̠̫̀u̸̗̮̘̹͠͞c̴̸̸̹̣̺̞͕̺̲͉̫̗͎̩̬͝h҉̵͚̙̞͚̖̯̺̗̘̰̕͜ ̵̯͇͉̼̠͖̰̩̩̻̥͖͔̤͇͚̩̰̘͞a̸̵̧̧̗͈͙̫̪̣̝̖̙̪͘s̵̷̮̘̪̲̙̝͔̲̝̭̪̥͉̣͢ ̡̛͈̖̭̺͈͔̟̠̗̪͉̯́͡ͅi͏̷̢̙̖̦͉̼͚͕̗̦͉̦̖̦͓̞͙̼̣͡͠t̶̶̨͝͏̯̞͓̫͇͈͖͙͙̙̥̩͙͇̦̥̝ͅ ͜͡҉̩͙̮̹̝̫̪͈̣͍̥̺͙̪̞͢h̷̟̼̤͎̠̮̘͈̣̬̗̙̤̱̯̹̹͔̕̕͟͠ư̟̼̘̤̭̜̲̜͕͍̖̠͖̳̳̭͟ͅr̨҉̳̯͔̤̰̗̭͉͕̘̭̤͚ͅt̛͇̠̟͎̦̲͉̘̩ͅͅs̷̶̢̙̮̞̦̼̰̭̲͖͡ ̷̧̢̗̥̲͎͚̜̤͕̦͉̰̫̦̜̭̘̖͇͘͜ḩ̨̯̞͚̱̠̰̯͉̰̠̪͇͘͜ͅì͝͏̣̼̮͉m̀͢҉͔͎̥̠̦̬̦̲̘̜͍̦͜ ̥̭̯͔̼̤̠̟̘̺̹͇̀͜͠w̡̛͈̰̞̦̣ͅh̨̛́҉҉̦̫̺̝̖͖ͅį̴̞̺͔͚͉͓̳͕̖̰͍͖̬̕c̻͙͇͇̗̦̜̻͎̳̝͚̹̥̫͚͠h̛̖̱̞̼ ̷̸̶̡̳͇̰̜̲͚̪͕͔̼̤̯̪̱̤̳̕h̶̠̹̜̻̘͜ͅu̡͎̺̱̫͇̥̬̘͕̙̬̣͢r̶̵̡̛̗̪̣͎̙͜t̶͟҉̶͕̫̞̥̼͍͇̙̟͙̹̭̯̯̮̗̞̱ş͎͖͙̻̤̦̝͉̖͎̜̮̰̙̩̕ ͍̘̘̼̹̥̩̺̦̜́͝m̴̢̜̤̹͉͍ę̴̴̛̖̲͍̲͘ͅͅ ̶҉͕̯͖̘̦̭̮ͅm҉̬̰͚̖͔̰͕̭͎͙̳̬̪̹̪͙͙͓̕ò̠̹͚̖̩̘̙̪̤̝͍͍͈̖̦̟͖͈͘r̴̛̼̙̣̣̱̺͈̬̼͍̀͠͞ͅe̴̴̶̡̦̘͖͚̖͔̖͕̪͜ͅ.͏̵̷̖̩͍͙͞  
̷̴̛̱̬͎͔̳̮̦͉̙͎͉̮̜̰͡  
̡͓͉̼͕̕  
̷̨̼̞̘̺̤̼͚͉͇͇  
̷̵̴̹̘͖̥̜̥̣̣́͟a͟҉͉͓̥͎̫̟̮͇̥̀͠͝ ̢̡̧̨͖̣͍͓̙͓̥̭͇͕̲ͅͅͅm̴̨̘̙͔̰͕̯̬͎̥͎̦̤̗̫͖͎͕̮̟̕i͏͓̙͈̺͠l̴̜͓̗̟̫̀͘l͇̲̤̻̦͍̤͇͙͍̣̼̹̣͞͞͝į̫̙̻̖͔̯͉̗̰͖̯̭̯̱̤̼̩͝o҉̶̟̫͍̹̹͖̥̫̙͈̭̭͙̦͇̀͜n̶̢̛̻̺͇̺͔͙̜͓̰͎̲͜͢ ̵͍̦̭̮̜̩̫̭͜s̨͘͞͏͏̝̼̜̫̱̻̘̣̣̠͚̥̫̣̫̜ͅṕ̡͉̩͈͈̙̱̰̰͎í̷̡̨̬̦̱͓d̨̟͓̝͈͈̰̺̟̤̭̱̯̦͖͈̠́͡ͅe̵̢͎̹͇̻͞r̢̛͉̳̱̪̞͚̩̪͙͇s͏̴͇͈͈̱͓̗̞̜̳̱͝͡ ̶̶̢͚̳͍̤͕̖̫̞̮͈̼b̧̩̞͈̭̤͇̭̪͙͇̝̬͚͘͜͝i̵̧̤͓̲̣̕͘͡ͅţ̷̛̙͙͎̖̹͙͚̯͠e͝͏͔̮͔͈̱̪̜̥͍̰̦̜͟͞ ͚̙̻͓̹̳̭̫̞̞̻͚͞m̶̵̨̧̺̠͉̫̟͍̼̞̣̥̠̳͔̪̱̟͚͇͢ȩ̴̸̸͍̖͖͚͚͕͓̭̦͖̰ ̜͇̪̘̖̱͖̦̗̺͔̘͜a̢̲͎͍̣̝̗̭͟l̛̤̩̯̩̞̭͙̼̘̠̙̯̺̙̹͢͟͝l̢̜̟̪̦͖͡ͅ ͞҉̢̝͖̫͈̦̘̣̬͚́͝ͅo̡̘̫̬̗̤̼̜͉̗͢͝ͅͅͅv̡̳̯͕̬̦̗͎̀͡͞͡è̴̴̮̲̞̤̲̠͎̙͎̟̕͜ṟ̛̥͈͇͇̪͙̫̭̭͓͖̼̮͞ ̸̢̹̯̥͎̠͎̝͖͕̘̫͇͜͝m̵̴̟̤̗̘͙̥͚̤͔͕̤̻̪͎̠͙̯̫͢y̷̸͏̘̙̖͍̼̲ ̸̢͈̠̤̖̱̫͎͇́̕͟ͅb̵̧̗̖̘̙̦̺͙̦̬͕̜̟͚̫̯̯̦̀͢͢o̴̴̠̗̙̟̣̗͉̭͕͎͙͡ͅd͜͏̨͔̭̻͇͈̳̺͔̙͔͓̰͚̕y̶̜̻̮̥̗̭͟ͅ ̵̙̼̺̙͙̬͍̯̳̕͜͝c̡̨̮̦̣͙̣̙̭͓͜͟͞à̵̢͚̪̮̯̫͞u̢̧̢͍̜̜͙̤̤̬͍̳̜̠̲̘͢͠ͅͅś҉̮͔͈͕͓̬̳̙̮͖̹i̴̵̛̟͔̣̮͓͚̗̤̬̣̠̬̖͇͝͠n̷̶̗͇͇̦̮̯̰͕̯͚̙͠͝g̟̝̜̪͎̪̼̬̖̮̘͖͟ͅ ̵̴̴̦͕͚͍͈̫͈͈̩͙̻̘̲̰̼̪̣̻͜n͚͙̮͕̘̝̬͉̠͕͡ȩ̳̝͇͍͕͢c̶̤̱͓̯̱̲̗̮̪̀r̯̩͙͈͖̤͈̻͖̳͚͉̬̗͍̥̻̖͜͢͠o҉̷͉͇͉͚̟̘̗͔̟͡͡ͅs͚͕̗̹͔͔̳̹̹͕̞̜͔̤̺̞̕i̵̧̫̰̭͎̩̗̰͈̖͍̳͎͙͔ͅș̵̵̢̛̺̖̖̟̻̘̙̫̬̞͚ ͇͇̮̮̥͔͓̠̭̕͜͢a̕͏̵̠͉͔͕̲̞͔͖n̛̦̺̥͖̠̫͈͈͓̱̞̬̳̦̻̖͕̫̹͢͜ḏ̶̢̝̗̗̦̥̬̬̙̜̻̹̣̦͟͞ ̵̠̹͎̯̥͙͚͇̹ͅm̲̹̫̱̩͉̯͎̯̲͍̯͜ỳ̴̸̵̞̣̪̼̗͎̜͈̭͇͓̝̬̖̙̱͚͇͟ͅ ̢̭̤̗͚̫̙͕̜͔͝ͅs̟̙͓̮͙̜͇̲͇̲̱̮̲͍͈̫̜̘͠͠k͙͚͇̩͔͔̝̀i̧̨̼̘͎̣͕͔͈̕ͅn҉̛̥̲̫͇̲̺̰͉͉̩̙͓̹̠̲͠ͅ ̷̟̦͙̠̪̟͇͠m҉̲̙̪͉͉̼̣̀ͅȩ̩̫͖̱̭̰̫̞̦̹̟̼̕l̶̛̫̱͓̦̗̞̬͟͟ͅṭ̟̯̜̙̼̬͝͡s̵̮͔̰̤̮͙͉̗ ̴̧̺̣̬͎̯͓͍̤̭̥̝̺̕͡͡o͕͖͙͇̘̝͚͖̦͠ͅf͏̫̰̮͙̠͈ͅf̵̡̢̜̜̣͈̰͔̪͖̺͓͎̯̫͖͍ͅ ̶̧̢̛̬̮̙̬̟̱̭̞̥͇̘̮͢ͅí̴̸͏̴̦̟̩̥̰͚̲͚͕n̵̡̪̼͔̲̯̘͖͍ͅ ̮͎͖͇̘̖̞͙͔̙̪͕̤̘̩̝̹̘́͞a͘҉̷҉͖̻̣͎̠̤͕̳̘͍ ̸̴̡̯̘͖̲͕́͝r̵̤̰̦̪̞̤̟̺̞̖̕͠ͅè͘͏̴̯̲͙̠á̸̘̤̼͖̩̭̹̞̗̼̪͘͟͢ͅͅͅl͝͞͏͕̠͉̙̘̠̭̠̤̲l̷̡̦̹̼̜̱͖̞͔̹y̛̺̭͉͔͉̟̕͜͝ͅ ̴̨̛͙̦̖͔͈̞̘̕̕s͢͏̮̘͖̼̺̙̗͉̩̩̙̣̠l̺̼̟̹̲̫̠̭̲͟͢͠ͅͅo̧̮͙̹̭̭͎̪͓̜̝͍̟͍̕͟w̧̡̨͍̳̦͎̬̰̜͖̘̫̹̦̝̻͜͝ͅ ̲̣̙̬͔͚̯͞ͅa̷̵͕̦̖̟͍͔̼̬̼̲̤͖͘ͅn̢̺̼͍̫̲̮̘̼̩͙͈͉̝̟̣͔͢ͅd͏̱̮̞͇̙͕̲̟̯̬̰̯̺̪͞ ͕͔̦͉͖̟̹̮͖̥͍͎̹̙͔̻͝p̡҉̦̞̤͇͓͙̬̘͈̘̥͔̣͢ͅá̧͖̩̮̱̳̤̳̭̥͔́͜i̴̸̭̫͉̘̝̻̬͕͜ǹ̶̰̰͎̜̬̲͜f̶̧͕̳͙̝̰̪̝͖̭͓̻̘̞̜̬͞͠u̡̙͎͇̞͘͠l̦̬̙͓̝̳͇̗̤͖̹͞ ̷̺͖̳̥̳͢c͏̢̢̖̺͍͉̳͕̭̤̗͕̝̝̗a̷҉͇͙͇̩͕̘̲̪͚̞̦̠̞̲̮̱͞ͅṕ̸͉̺͙̠͎̟͖͖̲̘̩̰͠͡͡a̷̴̢̲͚͓̙̳̠̪͉̤̰̦͖̳̼̩̬͘c͏̜̣͍̳̼͔̟̭͝i҉̰̝͇̹̗̬͇͔̟̮̳̘͡ͅt̷̳͉͖̀̀͜y̴̨͎̼̘͓̠̭͚͕̖͓̭͜ͅ.̧͔̞̰̜͍̳̻͓̯̹̲́  
̧̕̕҉̻̞̫̘̳͎i̢̡̼̦̘̝̤͕͚̝̕͞ ̢̠̖̰̹̬͉͉̭̜̤͍̠̘̩̀̕͘͜ḩ̷̻̝̲̫̠͓͙͓̩̙̣̬͓̙̞͚̥̕͝á̟̻̱̖̲͍͉̪͎̘̭͜v̸̥̪̖̻̫͡ͅę̲̺̳͚̘͍͉͙͕͉͓̻͎́ ̵̧͉̤̜̭̜̟̱͇͇͘͠d̥̲̮͎͖̟͟͟͡í̡̘̠̜̤̭̼̰̩̖̦͍͞s̡̨̠̙̜̙̭̯̙͙̳͜á͍̯̗̹̘̯̻̻̼͓̩͉̬̙̫̩̜p̨̥̜̻̼̪͓̣̘̭̮̟͖̤͟͝͠ͅp̢͏̵̢̪͎̩̥͕̞̘̣̣͓̯̜̦ó̸̞͓̱̺̙̱͎̥̳͓̗̞͎̜̙̞̪̜͘͘i̷̧͚̘̳̭͖̹͍̜͙̫̞̻͘ͅn̸̕͏҉̨̼̹̲͍̭͚̯̬̱͍̗̳t̸̡̯̣̹͇̖̤͙̯͖͔̩͚ͅe̡̛̖͔͖͉̜͍͙͖̹͈̠̕͝d̨͚̥̮̦͇̯̹̙͜͞ ̸͙̜̭͓̜͍͓͔͙̜͕̖̳͈͔̦̹̀̕ǵ̤͍̘̪̟͓̬̖̠̪̰͚̠̜͉̤͘ơ͇̣̙̟̳̦̹͡d̴̶̠̝͈̩̺͚͈̜̯͕̫̝̥̥͈͜͜ ̶̪̻̮̯̬̳̠͖̀͜͜a҉̙͎̙̟g̻̙̹͎͇̣̞͉͍̱͙̭͢͝ͅḁ̷̸̶̩͕͍̟͖̖̟̥̺̬́́i͘͟҉͖̯͙̯̗̻͖̥͓̦̱͔̞̩́͞ͅͅn͘͝҉҉̯̙͔̲͙.̸͟҉̧͎͙͙͈̲̱́ͅ  
͘͏͍̬̭̰͡  
̵̯̜̟͓͚́͘̕  
̵̴̫̱̞̗̻̬̤  
̨͈̜̫̞̙͓̩̭̟̪̫̱̫͘  
̶̶̩̞̠̙̦͢͜͞m͓̤̫̼͉͟͟ý҉̟̞̭͈̙̪̬̭͓ ҉̨͍͎̰̮̘̩̟̰͔̬̥̳̼̙̤́c̨͎̫̗̥̝͇̞̯͇͓͖̰̟̲͇͠͞a̷̬̻̲͇̲̫̙̲͓̣̞͎̹͍͜p̡҉҉̴̛̩̣͙̙͕̗̦̦̖̖̫̝̘͙̱̹̠ͅà̵̛̭̬̜̗̬̠̗̩̜̞͈̬̳̩̱̝̪͔͜c̛͏̧͎̲̤̖͚̦̳̮̟͙̗i̧̛̛̗̦͖͇̦̬̹̤͇͚̯͔̻̘̖̬͘͢ͅt̥̬̮̼̹͎̤̹͟͜͠ý̶̖̭̱̠̗͍̭̹͖̺̳ ̵̡̀͏̮̦̣͉̟̼͖̹̫̠ͅi̵̭̭͔̩͍͢͞n̢͏̼̦͇̘͢͜ ̵̵͕̱̝̮̱g̼̮̞̯͚̠̙̠͔̠̣͉̲̱͟͡͠ͅò͎̠̲͚̯̰͈̪͖͇̙̘̝̻̖͇ͅd͏̞̗̗̙̜̝̼̪͇̣͙̮̀͟ͅ'̸͖̬͇̱̯͓͎͕̺͞ͅs̷̴̬̺̬͍͈̣̻̞͕̥̳̙̻̰̣̩̜̭ ̵̷̴̮͚͇̮̯̩̞̼̩̤̲̗̗̳͖̮̥̺͢ͅm̶̭͈̼̹̣̙̹̬̺̭̘̰͖͓̺̥͇̀͝͡į̼͍̭͈̻̪̲̣̤̕͟͝ͅn̸̢̜̩͓̺̭̙̫d̷̸̤̥̥̹͔̯̯͍̞̜͉̯̣͝ ̜͎͚̺̺̣̱͖̮͇̫̪͈̖̼͇̬̫͔͜f͏̷̯̖̞̫͍̳̙̫͇̜̣̳̠̭͙͚̟̱͠é̡̟͍͎̦̖͖̜͉̪̠̲̖̟̹ͅè͖̥̭͙̖̖͚̺͟ĺ̴̥͕͚̺͎̱̻̙̯͉̗͈̫s̢̨̛̛̝̦̜̜̙͇͜ ̶̡̪̟͕̙̥̟̜̠͓̞̥̫͕͙͔͕͜ͅͅl̡̘̖̪̪̣͉̯̭̼̯̤̮͙̘̫͟i̡̧͕̯̖̳̭̥̻̹̙͚̻͙͜k̯͍̦̝̤̣̟̺̖̖̕͡ͅe̲̱͕̰͓̞͟ ̱̪̤̤͟͞a̴̛͇̖̥͎̫̫̦̙̘̬͉͖̮͈̘̺̖͕͇͝ń͖͖̦̪̞͖̖͓͘͟͝ ̼̱̤̝͚̯̳̬̥̝̜̙̲̺͖̠̘͞e̸̮̫̫̭̗̮̲͇̭̳̦̝̥̣͓̭͚̘̕ͅţ͖̲̘̺̠̟̯͚̳̣̥̠̰̝e̶̤̭̥̳͎̖͍̙͉̪͚͚̺̱͔͕̫̳͞ṛ̶̰͚̠̮̝̪̱͚̤̯̞̫͕̥̟͈ͅn̢̲͖͇̪̳͉ͅͅį̶̴̰̞̩͉̖̹̯̜̬̯͡t̡̠̦͍̦͘y̴̶̷̧͉̗͍͙͖̕ͅ ̶̺̮̣͕̼͙̲̤̭̼͎̦-̸̧̢̱̩̬̦͇̫͕̣̞̖͕͓͡ ̢̡̬̣̠͇͓̪͓̦̀͜ḷ̛̘̪̹͟i̷̴̛̗̼͕̠̮͖̜͈̮̲̻̞̘̻̬̞̗̤̕̕ͅk̛͏̵̘͔̗̘̼̰͍̰͍̀è̷̢͔̱͚͚͓̘̕͡ ̶̢̡̱̪̪̞͎̘̼̫̳͇̪͈̥̫̩͖̮͘͠ì̴̮̱͈͞͝t̷̢̘̪͉̥̮̳͚̟̪̥̠̕͟͞ ̢̲̦̫̟͙̻͕̠͖̹̬c̶̛̛͎̲͔̥̤͖͕̻͉̗͟ò͡҉̹͇̻̺̩̬̹̪͙̖͚͢ù̘̯̬̠̘͎̜̠̤̘̮̲̼̥͢͡ͅͅļ̵̫̭̞̖̥̱͇͖̤͇͇̰̹̠͉̹͝͝ḑ̤̬͎͓̱͔̝͚̝̳͖̖͖̖̩͚͈͢͟͞ͅͅ ̸̨̯͕̠̙̫̼͖͍̤̬͉͠ͅa̢̳̼͕̠̞͇̯̮̳̘̬̤͈͇̯͜͡n̡̨̫̥͎̞̟͈̗̞̫̰̼͎͓͝ͅd̷̸̲̤̞̰̬̤̭͚̠̗̀́ ̴͚̪͚̗͎͈͉̱̤̤̱̟̣͚͘͢h̵̶͕͖̹̖̺̲̲a҉̶̳̭̭̫̯̲̙̳̱̭͎͈̀̕s̨̫̖̜͖̥̮͉͚͢ ̶͏҉̯̲̹̯̙̙a̢̡҉̢͉̺̞͇̳͍̫͜n̵̹̥̮͖͇̖͟d̘̦͔̻͝ ͏̧̬̻̲̻̭̪̬̦̼͙̩̤̣̰̦͘͠ͅͅw̧̢̪̩̮͇̜̩̣̺̳͎͓̳͖͚̖̱̼i̡̯͚͕̼̫͕̠̟̩͝l̢̼̥̠̪͟͟l̵̝͕̫̼̺͍̠͉͈͓̪̻̣̭̗̦̖͖͇ ̳̝͓̻̺̖̭͖̩̤̙͢͢ǵ̸̠̯̹̟̯̯̲͖̘̺̟̫̤̯̟̲̗͡ͅͅo̵̶̦̘̦͓̘͟ ̘͎̼͍̤̬̳͖͎͇́͢͢͝o̞̯̲̜̯̖͖̗̟̫̯͙͢n͏̯̺̦̪̠̞̟̫̻̼̱̻̦̗̣̝̀͞ ̵͟͟͝҉͍̬̙͔̻̹͉̹̩̬̼ͅf̨̜̰̪͈́́͢o̸͉̘̰̱̭̱̲̞̮͇̝̯̮̗͉̰̻̲͉̕͡r̵̷̷̻̰̲͖̹̝̩̕̕ḙ͙͔̟̙͇͙͕͍͇̣̺̠͚̰͍͡v̶̸͎̤̱̻̫̳̤̥͙͍̯͘é̞̯̖̞͕͓̯̭̬̲̟͍̞̭͟͟r̴̷̜͎̯̦̞̱͖̪̟̗̭͖̼͍̼̝̀͞.̛̛͢҉̤̬̙̣̬͕̗  
͖̺̥͎͇̠̣̪͔̥̣̹̙̙̲͞͡  
̢͎͔̯̝̖̳͔̠͖̝͚͎̟̱̕͟͡i̶͕̪̯̺̳̼̼͉̬̺̝͔̞̗͘͜ǹ͕̥̱͟ͅ ̷̴̺̤͇́t̨҉̝̥̙̹̺͕̲͙͈̻̝h͝͏̥̠͎̳͇͝ì̧̘͎̻̼͜͝ͅs̴̴͇͖͚͕̗̲̩͙̰͔̫͙̥̕ͅ ̷̢̛̝̻̭̗̗̰̼̞̦̟͇̩̟̫͓̠͉͠ͅç̵̷̖̣̫̮̖͘a͢͏̴̷̢̺̘͍̗̞͍̘p̴͚̮͎̺̪͙̱̲̺͘á̡͏͢҉͍̰͎̞̘̲͓͍̹̼̗͉͕̖͓ć̶̴͍͙̲̟̙͙̣͟͜į̨̘̠͈̬́͠t̴͎̗̜̯̳̼̲̤͇̗̳̦̟͚̼̪͔͓͠ͅy̵̷̶̛̥͚͉͍̬̜̹͇̬̠͓̞̜̯̯͞ ͏͟҉̵͎͍̖̞̘̻̱̝̳͈̣̳̲͕̣i̖̳̪̪̫̫͡͡ͅ ҉҉̩̖̝̣̦̤̩̼̥̙̤a͏̨͎̣̞͎̣̗̱̜̺̗̰̙̼͇m̧̩̻͕͎͖͉̖͡͡ ̢̨̮̬̰̘̟̻̮̩͎̝͠ͅm͇͕̩͈̯͘͡e̵͍͙͔̻͉̩̜̝̜͇̪̹̺̠͕ͅ.͏̵͙͈̙͟ ̸̕͘͏̷͚̠͎̟̰̬͚͔̟̹͇i҉̷̸̩̹̯̮̫̮̠̘̯͚͖̪̱̯̦̩̯͓͘ ̵̸̡̮̝̺̤͖̣̝̱͇̰̟̤͢à̵͏̫̮͉̣͔̤̼͍̺̞̥̣̦̥͕͚͖̙̬̕m̢̱͍̳͙̗̘̞̼͚̩̣̙̱̞̤͘͘͢͜ ̸̤̲̼̣̬͎̬̯͓̺͍̳͝n҉̥͇̳̹̹̖͉͟a̷̰͚̩̪̳̲̕d̵̢̢̼̣͉̣͉̜̫̗̹͍͈̬̖̱̯͉̰̯͟͝i̛̬͇̞̳͈̲̜͜͟͞ǹ̖͎͈͎͉̳̘̙̹͢͟͟e̴̷̻͍̜̳̮̖̠̘͉͟͟ ̢͚̮̱͝f͍͈̦̹̙̳͉͇̟̰͚̮͈̫͎̟̟͡ļ̛͍̜̹̹̠̣͙̘͕̻͍̘̰͘͞ͅͅͅu̸̶̶̧̖̫̙͖̜͓̱͔m̸̧̭̺͍̻͕̳͓̠̮̦͚͓̰̤͈͝͞ͅb͉̦̘̮̮̣̬̹̥̭͠è̵͇̰͙̦͕͓̼͇̩̹̩͚̹͚̟̱̜ŗ̛̛̺̖͓̝̩̥̰͙͎̫̞̘̭̜̲͠͡g̡̢̛͈͓͇̙͉͠h̶͖͙̘̱͎̤̯̯̖͈̲̜̹̱̕à̷̯̘̣̳̣̰͚̤̫̜͉͍͎̘͉͟͞͡ͅs̡̧̠͎̱͈͈̟̝͔͔ͅt̸̸̝̙̭̥̼͚̠̰.̶͏̴̶̖̠̭̜̖̙̹̠̜̥̠̲̝̼̟̙͜ ̵̭͎̫͇͉͇͙̱̬͚̱͇̦͕̻͝ͅͅi̵̦̙̻̮̙̻̜͉̺ ̶̧̙̦̣̰͕͔̠͖ͅa͏̡̻̮͔̠̳̬̳͓̳̟̬̝̬̬͚̳̩̳͘͟͢m̴̴̜̟̠̝̦̗̤̭̪̺̥̩͈͞ ̷͠͡҉̮̲͓͔̟̘̝͔̜̮̠̺̺̪ͅá̷͖̦̤͖͍͞ͅͅņ̪̪͈͎͍͈͚̦̮͘͢͟͝ ̡̧̪̼͍̺̩̼̳͉̣̹͖̯̕i͏̶̷̭̼͔̘̳͓͓̯̟̲͈̩͚͘ͅn̨͇̳̼͉͔͚̜͍̣͙̞̣̰͎̲̗̪̥̕͡͝d̷͕̙̪̮̬͔̟͈̞̰͝i̡͜҉̩̥̫̻͔v̸̛̙̲̼̺͔̯̦̕͝ì̲̝͚͔͎̞̕͘͠ḍ̵̢̪̺͙̞̩̱̳̜̦̀u͏̷̧͉͍̳̣͚̼̮͚͈̪̳̖͎̰͇à̹̹̝͍̦͓͇̹̘̠̖̖̹̯̗͍̪͘͢ͅͅl̢̨̧̬̯̰̲̥͢ ̷̰̖̭̦̝̺̱̻̥͙̗̹t̡̺͙͚͎͇̹͇̱̣̩͈̲̲ͅh̀҉̙̼̻̘ͅa̛͎͉͓̗͕̠̣̱̗̯͙̱̙̳͍̼͟t̸̡̨͙̭̖̺̞͓͉͚̯ ̸̹͖̻̳̙͝e̵̵̥̜͙͎̝̲̣̩̘̳͓̰͓͉̦͙͜ͅx̶̰̼̼̜͓̪́́͟͠i̸̲̰̬̣͜ş̧̥͕̫͉̝͓̘̻̯̺͖̞̰̭̞̗̣͍͞ͅṯ̸̨̧̝͇̠̺͈̥͢s̸̸̛̼̻̖̲̗̫̱̫̼̳̩̫̻͚̼̟̥͉̀͘ ̨̢̡͓̲̬̘͈̦͢ͅͅa̶̵̡̱̟͍̭̯̲̬͇̫̖̠͜͝ͅs̨̡̛̙̤̗̙͎̞͕̀ ̵̨͈̩̯̟̬̗̞̬͍̰̗̳̦͢͟ą̫͕͔͍̻̮͇͕͇͡ ̡̲̹̲͞͠b̸̛͙̫͔̜̖̝̮ͅͅr̶̹͕͍̮̕i̷̢̧͇̦͎̤d̴̨̠̭͎̗͙̗̲̬͔̕͜͞g͏̶̢̛̮̥̘̭̣̟̜̺̲͈͠e̸̴̶̮̜̙̘̠̖̦͔̟͍̝̻̤̠͝ ̨̗̠̱̙̳͖̪͈̪̜̳͈͍̦̖̣͠f̧̢̛̛͔͍̪͍͎͔͉͚͠ơ̵̴̲͍͇̺̦͍͍̝̰̦̗̤͓̥͙͙̜̱͡ͅr̷̩͎̬͓̜͚̙̪͍͇͎͝ ̴̲̮̙̗̭̠̤̠̼͢ţ̨̟̗͖͖̫̱̠̳̝̘͇̩̘̖̩̲͘͠͝h͏̵̵̖͎͉͓̝̮̫̲͔̤̮̻́e̶͕͇͓̘̲̘̱͔̗̥͟͞ͅ ̶̷͏̼̼̪̹͇̝̱̠̮͙͇̯e̸̫̺͈̣̖̱͚͎̞̪̟̼̱͖̪̞͚ͅͅx̷̨̗͚̫͖̠̖̲̗̘̲t̲͇̳̬͙̩̱̪̺̤͇̯͖̀͟͡ẹ͇̳̥͟͟͝͞n͏͎͙̗͈̣̬̗̹̟͓̬̤́s̡̟̙̻͙͎̻͓̞͈̯͓̝̘̠͉͔̟̲̜͞i̢̡̱͇̦̩̼̖̫̝̺͍̗̲͈̞͎͍̜͞͡ͅo̰͕̹̯̙͇̜͕̬̜̗͕͟͜n̡҉̼͍̮̝͓̣̦͖̗̠͙̝̹̱̘̫͎͉͠ ̴̼͇̩̬̳̝̹̣̱̫͈͚͇̫͚̜͈̲͇̕͞͠o̢̘̹͙͍͎͇̼͎̼̣̞͝f̸̶̴̩̬̝̦͓́͞ͅ ̢̧̠͎̩̲͜͜g̸͘҉̸̣͚̲̗̰̪̭ò̷̧̫̖̗̰̰̭̻͚̟̤͇̣̦̘͢d̵̞͓͇̻̺̬'̸͏̯͕͎̬͇s̸͜҉̭͍̥̜̖̬͈̯͘͜ ̸̧̣̱̜̥̰̦̝̝̣̝̘́p̖̫̭̤̙̼̪̞̳͚̣̝̲̖̗̗͙̯͘͘ş̦͖̙̻̦̘̟͔͙̱̟̲͇̥̯̦͉̲̟͢͠y҉̵̸̵͚̬͖͎͓̳̱͈̖c̷̢̢͇̗͚̼̺̗̪͈̬̻͕͇͚̻̜̞͠ͅh͘̕҉̢̦͓͖̹̤̣̥̗̫͖̹̠͜e̶̡̺͇̯̥͓̱͉̩͎͇̣̝̲͔̗̹̲̗͡ ̶̦̗̟͚̜̗̟̕͟͝t̶̖̭̣̩̰̪͉̳̗̰̮͓̺̝̀͢͟͜ẖ̸̛̦͚͍̪͈̝͙͕̹̖̳̠͖̼̮̤ͅa̶̩̙̙͎̼̟̪̪̣̪̠̱̤͘t̶͚͉̬̗͔̦̱͍̗͓̮̙̣͟͢ ̢̜̞͎̳͙̳̘͔͕͍͈͚̀̕͢͢ͅs͖͙̘̹͙̪̰̬̤͢͠h̵͟҉̥̤͓͚͉̲͓͔̙̼͕̖̩̤̻͓́ͅe̵̞̙͖̞͓̱̼̗̞̫͉̦̗͜͠ ̷̛͡҉̰̠̦̠̯̣c̴̡̩͚̰͉̰̰̘̻̮̲̙͟ḁ̡͇̠̪̫́n̷̶̴̷̶̯̘̮͕ ̧̢̡̢̻̱̺̜̝s̶̠̥̞̼͎̯͞t̷̖̦̦̣̦̲͚̙͔̻̺̦̬̗̺̮̀͝u̵̢̢͇̘̱͕͘͝d̡̛̬̼͙̤̀͠͞y̷̡͙̗͙͎͎͢͠͞ ̸̨̪͖͖̮͝f͏̵҉̵̰͍͍̰͓̘̳̗̼̠̩̹ͅͅơ̹̘̪͍͓̬̤̬̻͟͟r̴͕̤̹͜ͅ ̢̝̹͇̮̬͙̫͍͕͝h̶̴͓̪̫̣̩͖̩̥͖͇͔̭̫͚͇͕͈̕͜ę̰̝̱̙͎̞̝̠͓̼͈̹͜͞ŕ̷͟͝҉͚̲͉̻͍̦̬̥̮͙̪̹̬͈̖̖̺̝ͅs̶̸̗͕̭̰̱̞͚̯̤̤̝͚̕͡͡è̴͠҉͚̜͉͙̪͓̫̮̭̲͓̥̠̣̟̣ͅl̶̸̢̛̞͇͖̼̗̩̭̱͙̤̞̬f̸̢̺͎̥̺̀͞.͇͓̗̳̗͈̩͓͟ ̷̡̬̗͇̯̥̞͉͚̹̫̯͚͚̝̣̹̯͚̮͡  
̶҉̛҉̙̯͈͔͔͈̼̙͓̲̠͖̭̤̙͇͠  
̮͙̮̗̮̱̗̼͍̙̰̱̞̤̱̲̦͢͟ͅg͖̻̮̻̝͢͟o͏͡҉͙̤̱̺͖̜̥͓̬͇̭ḓ̴̼̤̤̮̮̜̭̠͝ͅ ̨̨̦͓͍̮̖̖̦̞̮̣̻̘̺̖̙̀͢͠a̩̟̩̘̺̯̝̩͓͕͕̤̼͜b̸̡͔͍̱͉͔̦̟̲̙̗ư̴̢̦̰͉̻̗̙͖͓̥̗̩̺͍̭̺͓̦s̴̷͇̞͓̖͜͟è̶̶͈͖̯̭̩̤̖͠s͏̙̫̜̖̦̱̙͔̝̘̜̟̠̭͖́ ̷̛͈̩̭̼̗̬̱̫̘̀͝m͏̨҉̫̫̖͖͖̪̹̭̮̼̺̳̮̖͇́e͘͢͞͏̶̠̮̹̥͔͇̥͔̦̠̤̳͉̺̖̙̱̜̼ ̧͓̬̼̻͘a̧͔̠͕̕̕ń̛͓͚̞̭͔̹͖̘͍̘̯̺d̵̷҉͙̯̻͎͞͠ ̷̺͚̲̜̮̮͖̕͡ͅu̧̺̱̼̹̩̹̼̭͔͜ș̨̜̼͎͙̀̕͠e̶̵̡̪͇̱̤͈̫̭̲͔̫̯͍͎͝͝s̴̵̶̢͍̻̝̺̻̘̝̻͎͍̠̝̱̻̰͚͜ ̢͔̻͕̺̣̫͢͜͡m̷͚̜̟͖̰͔͎̞̥̱̠̫̱͇̪̯͝ͅę̨̯̞̙̼͢͝͠ ͎̬͚̲̫͉̠̼́͢͞t̶̢̢̟̳̰̳̜̻͓͔̟o͏̙̙̗̱͓͕͖̞̟͉̪̀͟ ҉҉̴̯͍̰͓̫a͟͏͚͉̯͔̘̠̯̝̰̦̘̯̲͍b̵̶̢̥͉̥̹̞͎̪͇̱̳̪̀ú̸̢͍͚̝̘̹̯̫̳̥͓̳͟͡s̠̩̥̣̕͡e͜͢͏̷̢͇̺̠̹͕͉͇͓͕͍̭̝͓͔̥͕̜ ̵̴̰̯͍̰̬̼̯̬͙̹̤̰̙͙̳̗̮̀t̶̗͖̪̞̗͉̝̬̮̜̕͢h̨̢̯̜̤̤̘̲̮͎̟̻̜̕͟͞è̡̬̺̗͖͖̮̣̯̯̳̳͉̕ ҉͏̧̹̳̙͓̜̟ṕ̸̣̜̝̲͍̩̩͢e͉̬̮̭̠͍̦̯̲͖̲̰̙̗̬̻̫̞͜͜͢͡o̵͉̟̟̣̻̲̯̞̥͖̠̭̳͔͕͓͟͞͠p̶̛̠̗͚͎͓̝̖̀ḻ͕̥͎̞̼͘͜͢e̢҉̲͕͖͖̩̱̮ͅͅ ̴̧͖͔̗̜͈̥͈̬̯͎͢͟ì͇̱͇͉̩͍̰̘̣̭̜̰̹̣̕͠͠n̴̸̲̣̼͚̺͚͓̟̙̝̱ ̵̘͉̯̜̰̩̖́͡h҉̨̳̪͖̫̞̥͚͈̬͉̦̩̩̘͟ͅe̶̴̡͕̼̥͖̹͕̹͇̞̘̱̦̻r̸̖̗̘̜̠͘ͅ ̛͍̫͔̯̗̥̮̥̜́̕ĺ̸̴̺̥̗̳͓̮̘̳i͏̸̡̨̠̦̹͕̦̟̮̞̩̻̟̭̫́ͅf̥̞̟͇͈̩̮̫͓͍͈̘̤̝̼̕͟͞e҉̨҉̡͕̮̝̭̼͚̤ ̛̦̩̤͙̻͈͓͇̹̘͓͖̤̀͢͜͞ͅí̸̪̰̱̫̬̭̮̫̘͝͝ǹ͙̝͚̫̟͎̬͍̮͉͓̬̕͘ ̢̡̪͎̟̮͇̤̮͙̀̕ȩ̪̤̯͙͖̳̪̘͇̹͇̺̪̦̠͜ͅͅf̵͢͏͇̜̞͎̩̞̲̪̺͜͞f̶̙̣̘͎̻̩̱̱̕͠ó͞͏͏̟͇͍̰r̴̷̥̝̩͔̥̞͈̯͉̝̥̱͓̭͚t͓͎̥̖̠̱̦̹̥̮͔̰̻͖̮̹̕͜͜͡ͅ ̶̺̳̥͚̥͔̥̳̰̙̟͙͝ͅt͏͏̸̟̖͖̯̜̹̝̖̫̲̙̻͖̳ͅo̧͕̦̜̝̲̳̘̕ ̨̛҉̴̜̠̮̰̜̯̹̻f̸̸͇͉̱͓̥̺̘̦̺͟ͅu͕̺̬̺̮̤̮̫̹̖̖̺̠̕͞ͅŗ̻̯͇̙̩̝̩̼̩̯̹̖̼̣̰͈̤́́͝ţ̛͔̮̳̲͟h̶̴̨̢̪͇͕͖͓̺̲̦͙̀e͜͏͖̗͈͉̖̬͕̬̻͙͇̺͚͓̘͖r̶̶̡̞̳̱̥̪̮̯̩͍͍̦̯̹͝͝ͅ ̵̜̲̰̺̺̹̰̮̻̕͡͞ư̶̷̡̹̖̞̟̟͈̪̤̗̭͉ṇ̶̶̡̢͚̠͢d̡̞̠̥̝͍̝̳̠̀͝͠e̗̦͓̕͡r͏̴̢̜̮̜͙̲͙̩̮͚̝̱͚̹̱͚͟ͅͅś̴̢̫̪̦̯͚̬̼̖̀͟t̡̨̞̙̱͚͉̫͓͍̫̟͎̫͇͎̣́͘a͕̻̗̗̱̭̟͓͕̝̯̮̼̜͟͠n̸̡̮͖̩͔̟͈̫͚̯̗̭̖̘͚̺̝̤̜̣͘d̛̟̙̖̺̠͉̙͈̮̜̭͔͔̥̦̮͙̪͜ ̳̰̤̱̜͍̮͖͍̬̺͇͢͢͞ͅh̛̪̥̦̫̦̗̗̠̻͙͈̻͕̪͓̮͜͢͢e̴̲̖̠̞̞͓̲̱̠͙͇̣̹͈̰̲̭r̺͎̰͎̞̟̺̯͈̥̠̻̟͠s̨̱̥̪̹̺̗͎͟͢ͅe͢͏̧̧͓͉̤̤̝͙͝ļ̵̤̬͎̣̠͇̲̰͕̝͉̞͎̥́͜f̠̙͍̲͙̘̥̘̣̺̝͙̪̰͙̩̳͡͝.̶̡̳̭̠̳͎̻͎̹̞̘͔̗͔͢͞  
̶̕͜͏̧̗̤̯͍̬̩̦͖̟̺͚̠͓͈͓̥̙  
̷̝̼̠̻͖̼̫̜̯̣͓̮͇̪̩̲͘͢ͅw̶̴̤̖͓̩̣̱̩͎̻̰̜͙̺͙͚̜̙̖̯͡h͏̨̧͍̟̞̫͕̼̗̜͈̩͖̼̝̩̙͖ę̛͏̨̤̟̤̹̫͖̺̮̤͈̬̹̝̪͓̥̙̗͓͠ǹ̢̨̞̫͓̦̲̗̤͍̺̠̩̗͙̬͍̪ ̡̛̛͙͚̣͚͉̭̮͎͓̟͢͡ͅͅs̶҉̢̣̖̣̱͖̻̩̥͚̘͜͞ͅͅh̷͏̰̫͈̻̯̥ȩ̛̱͈͇̙̞͉̮̳͔͢͡͝ ̧̡̛̮̩̫̙̲̤̭̖͞b҉̬̩͙̺̳̺̻̥̲̖̦̲̮̰͡͝r͟͝͏̞͚͇̜̪͉̩̦͇̣̩̪̩̳͉̩͇i̢̤̺̭̩̦̜͓̺̘̘̪͢͠ǹ͠҉͏̛͉͕͇̱̮͉̝̫̤͎g̴̝͕̱̝͘͜͠s̢͞҉̨̺͕͕͎̣̝̖̹͕̙ ̛͏͏̨̞̬̱̝̲̦͇͍͔͎ḿ̵̡̭̠̰̖̲̺̩̣e̜̖̜͎̮̭͎͎͇̦͜͝ ̷̶͓̻̘̥͉͕̪̲̰͉͕͢t̻̩̮͚̮̯̯̺̗͟͞o̷̸̻̦̗̟̼͖͕͕̞͇̟̮͠ͅ ̸̻̲̘̭͕͔͈̜̥̮͕̟ț̨̼͇̮̙̠̟͇͔̠̣͟͡h͏̷̡̳̥̜͕̝è̡̖͔͉̥̲̝̕ͅ ͘҉̛͏҉̜͔͙̙̲̣̹̖̭͙͇̥̟̦̺͎̙̲̮f̴̨̨͕̰̗̜͉͓͚̼̪͇̼͕̲̞͠ơ̛͉͚̻̬͎͍̬̜̘̭̣̱̕̕r̸͝҉̯̲̜̺̝̼̼͍͖͕̣̦̫̩͉̬̀ȩ̳̜̼̜̲͙͓̪̫̲̱̳͚̠̜͉̭̮̝f̶͟͟҉̪̬͈̰̤̰͚̮̩̲͖̤̰̭͔̤͍͔r̶̢͈̲̥̜̞͞o̷҉̖̪̘̜̱̺̣̹̞̬̖͓̮̭̳́n҉̧̞̱̰͖́̕͠t̨̯̘̯͈̰ ̴̵̰̤̪̟̯̱̩͉̞̦̼͓̦͙͟o̵̖͖̲͉̟̕f̷̶҉̦̱̺̠͇̞̥̩͙̙̥̣ ̶̡̱͙͍̣͠h̸̢̨̗̤̺̜̭̺̘̖̺͠ȩ̴̸̧͓̖̝̲̟̮̯͓̣̩̼͙̳͓͇̮r̶̵͚̮͍͉͇̦͔̯̪͙͙͇̲̜͘͝ͅ ̸͞͏̙̣͇̫͕͓̬̦̺̦̻m̶̶͍͖͈̞̻̹̮̬̘͙̝̖͙͖͜͝i̖̭͙̗͈͇͈͕͢͡n̡҉̲̦͇̣̥̮̪̹̖͘ḑ̸͇̥̰͇̜̯͉̼̲̖,̴̤̝̗̞͙̪̲̖̥̩̯͖̬̞̤̖͡ ̡̀̕҉̳̞͖͚̲̬̭̫̲͍t̡̧̨͇͙̭͓͚͇̺͇̼̱̫̯̝̫́i̢͇͇̙͕͓͓̤̭̝̕͘͡m̧̢̰͈̹͓̝̹̥͍̫̘̭͙͟͜͡e҉̡̥̳͖̺͇̦͈͢ ̷́͘͏̞̙̯͉̖̻̪̖̜͔̠͚̻g̬͇͔̝̲̪͇̣̪̼̬̱̻͢͠o̷̟̜̲̱̪͇͎̼̩͇̕ͅe̸̛͕͇̲̩̜̹̪̹̳͔̪̥̬͉̫̣͜͢͠ś̨̢̙̗̼̝͎̲̙͍̗̬̱͔ ̴̤̲̖̞̞͔̬̝̘̺͚̼͚̳͜͠͞b̶̵̙͙̱̞̯̲͝y̴̢̩̟͎̪̳̦̮̯̻̬̯̺͙͙̞̕͠͞ ̷̡͓͕̹̮͉̯̹̩͕͘͢a̧̡̨̖̮͉͍͚̩̘̣͚̗͢ ̢͏̡̙̭̮̫̳l̴͈̬͍̞̟͔̖̭̰̤͟ǫ̴̯̼̮̫̞̻͓͇̳͍̩̰͕̘͎̠͖͢͟t̵̨̛̯͉̺͓̖̺̩̘̩̘̝̼ ͏̥̰̭̯̻̜̞̩̲̭ͅq҉͔͍̠̩̠̩̗̼̖̠̰̼͓͇̼̟̥͉͢͡u̥͍̣̗͞í̶̗̮̱̭̩̘̳̫͕̥̞͘͜͡c̛̛͏͔͚͕͍̳͉̤̘͙̹̱͍̩̞̞̘̺ḱ̨̛̗̜͓͈̞̦̤͜͢e̷̶̢̨̠͕͔̙̗͕͉͝ͅr̢̡̟̟̱͖̳̳͕̪͎͎̩̮̩̝̼ ̴̨͔͖̳̥͉͓͎̙̞̤̼̞͍͎̫̮̤́͟͝ͅț̳̻͔̤̺̳̰̜̮̙̜͍̪͈̕͠ͅh̸͎͚͈̺̥̩̹̮͓̻̰̬̗͚͢ͅa̸͖̤̥̫͞n̨̤̜͔͓̜̜͍̦̹̳̼̤͚̞̝̻͠ ̣͍̠̩̕͟w͉̠͉͚̤̫̜͕͙̬̲͘̕ḥ̵̮͎̳̫̲͞͝͠͝e̷͘͢҉̧͍̖̬͕n̢̡̲͈̭̲̤̯̦̤͜͞ ̴̡̻̺̭̟͍̻̺̙͚͚̯̬̱̺͕̠́͡i̧̼̬̲͘͜ ̴̘̟̣̝͕̘̙̘͕͇͔̬̫̗̜̳̪ͅe҉̵̴̧̬̫̫̼̭̪͚x̡̛̤̫̻̟̗̤͎̩̰͓͖̩͔͚̠̹̯͜͝i̶̧̠̫̠͓̼͔͘͢s͏̠͕̘͘͟͠t̨̮̙̪͟ ̶͓̬͓͇̦̦̬̰͡͠ͅi̶̺̺̳̼̙̻̻̱̹̮͓͘̕͜͟ņ̷̡̙͈͕̰̹̠͜ ̷҉̨̨̣͇̥͎͙̯̭̘̞͍̘̼͕̟t̨̗̥͓͕̱͎͚̩̯͕̙͇͢h̵̶̨̳̯̲̱e̵̴̢͚̟͓̣̘̰̯͚͓̲̦͟ͅ ̧́͏̤̤̳͇̟͍͖ŕ͢͏͘҉̖̖̥̜è̷̵̠̜̭̰̱͖͎c҉͏̷̧͎͈̳̫é̘̗̼̗̭̙͉͚͟ͅş͏̰͙͍͖̲̘̮̜̤̪͓͚̺̪͎͖̳͕̦s̴̢̛̛͎͉͙̹̞̮e̶̡̳̦̹̟̹̼̯̠̰̟͓̩̼͟͝͞ͅs̨̱̺̠͖͞ ̷͢҉̙͖̺̥̻͔̞o̻͈̣͉͎̼̗͈̺͈̗͍̰̹̟͝ͅf҉̴̢̛̺̹͚̟̘̲̙̜̟͖͘ͅͅ ̡̢̛̜̺̫̞̙̱̯̻̯͚͇͉̫̙̖̳̕͡h̛̠̠̣̣̜̺̦̪̻̱̻͖͔͔͓̥͘͡è̵̵͖̩͕͢r̭̞̭̤̪̘͍̠̲͉̫̕͝ ̨̗̩͇̦̦͜s͜҉̸̼̟͚̺̤̼̫̮̹̥͇̙̻́͜ư̷̬͎̮͚̘̳̯͔̹̳̣̪b̷͓̤͍͕͙̫̳͉͘͡ͅc̵̝͚̜͔͔̩̮̲̫̥̹͚̣͖̟͍̕͘o̸̝͉̭̘̣̱̣̣̩̟̬͖̣̻̳̩͠n͘͠҉̙̱̪̗̙̭̞̙͓͇̭̩s̡͍̝̭̙͍̖͖̹̀̀͢͢ç͜͡͝͏̰̘̜̠̗i̶̵͓̱̪̦͙̼̙͍̣̳̫̤͔̱͔̰̰͢o̸̷̧̢̱̲̺͎̺̥̯͚͈̩̰u̸̡͏̤̖̲̤̞̲̪̜̬͙͓̗̠s̢̨̩̘̘͖̫̲̬̲̗̰͍̮̞̪͙̪̩̻͟.̧̛̝͚̯̥̝̰͖̗̭͍̕͝͝  
̶̷̼̯̩̫  
̀͜҉̗̫̝͉͓̼̭̫̺̥̗̤̗͚̲͖͖̼͙͠a͟҉̢̛̲̝̲̀ͅn̵̴̘͉̩̭̗̫͎͉̠̮͕͚d̴̵̟̥̳̻̲̲̠͙̦̩̹͔͈͓̩̤̜͘͘͝ͅ ̷̨̻̩̭̙̘̬̘̻̥̞̠͜͟ͅt͔̯̗̲̜͘̕͘͟͞i̧̦̻̲̳̯̣̘͙̠̥͡m̶̧̫̩̲̻͍̖̘͍͔̟̟͇̖̞͇̜̣͜͠e͏̠̫̻͔͈͎̻͖̱̼̲̝̯̘ ҉̶͢҉̥͉͉̜͚̬̻͈͇̩͍̺͓̗̳̰ͅb̸̘͇̣̝̝̫̟̱͕͕̖͚̱͕͙͟͝ͅę̵͈͙̻̯̰̹̤̫́̕c̥͎̱͖̳͕̹̻̣͕̠̤̺̘̯̱̕ơ̴̛̱̖̭̭͟m҉̧̲͓̟͍̠̱̦͎͜͞͡e̷͙͙̙̲̱̦̮̳͙͕̩͕̮̗̕͟͡s҉̞̝͍̻̖͔͖̥̲͉̲̠̣̥̤ ̣̭͇̗̲̯̳̻̠̮̞̰̹̖̯͈́͘a̶͡͞҉͍̱̫̘͔̰͓̯͓̦͔̫͍͇g̦̬̺̠̜͔͈͖͕̘͚̀͢͢͡ǫ̶̸͕͇̤̘̞͎n̶̨͓̮̳ͅy̸̧̝͖͔̥̻̝̺̗̫͖̹̯̻̰̳̜͚ ̢̛̻̭̥̳̯̬w̧̠̱͕̠͍̬̯͕̤͓̖̭̫̠͙̟̥ͅͅḩ̶͎̺͎̲̩͉̼̬̮̳̫́͝ͅè̵̷̕͏̯̤̳͈̘̫͇̪͉͔̠̝̼̥̖̤̹̫n̤̯͈̹͟͝ ̴̤̖̪̹̖̜̠͠͞t̕͏̸͇͎̘͇̟͙̪̖̱̺̣͘h̨̨̨̖̙̺̻͍̦̦̺͔̜͇͉̖̜̀è̢͉̜͎̤̼͍ͅr̢̻̻̞͇̩͍̘̰̞̹͓͙̲͚̝͘e̡͏̨̱͖͉̪̱͈̹̘̖̝̤̮̥̬̯̦͞ͅ'̛́͏̣͓̥̮̜͔͈s̸̴̡͙̮̯̜͝ ̴̡̛͓̘͖͈̣̦͚̩̲̖̭͓̤̩̩͎̕̕t̝̥̳̳̘̱̝̘͇̩̙̟͙̼͚̪̹̺̪̀̕͘͝͝o̧̨̳̣̬͚͚̜̼o̶͉̱̮̱͈̘͙͚̣̘͞͞ ̷̸͎͕̺̮̹̣̠̟̫͎̙̝̭̝̫̝̗͡͞m̶̺̯̹̲̭̞̭̭̀͝ͅͅú̸̜͖͓̝͍̭͖̣̼͚̩̩͓̘̘̗̹ͅc̴̵̢̨̛̻͈͙̤̰̰ͅḥ̶̵̗͈̦̭̞̙̺̀͢͜ ̴̛̭͈̪̺̗̪̮͍͕̹̤̭̩ó̷̧͍̫͇̦̜̥̼̹̹́͟f̢͔̝̙͕͔̺̜̦͚͙̠̭̕ͅ ̴̼̜̤̦̥̙̯̫̠̘̤̮͖̻̪͖̗̯͞ͅi͏̵̰̦̼͙̖̖͜͝͡t҉̶̸̣͇̰̭̘̲͎̭̞̘̹͙̠͕̱͈ ̴҉͍͔͍͍̮̝̤͕̘̳̖̻̟̣̦b̶̷̸͎̥̟͈̼̩ų̛̛̺͈̞͈̮͇̫̙͠ͅt̶̰͓̰̻̼̯̞͖̕͞ ҉͓̙͔̞͓̠̘͎̥̭̲̹̦̤̬͜͢͡t̛̖̯͍̦̙͕̩͚̹̤̬̲̭̜̳̱͘͜ͅi̸̶̛͔͇̟̯͚͔͚̣̝͝m̨͈̦̜̦͙̤̲͇͘͝e͈̠̠̯̘̲̜͎̩̥̠̻̻̯̙͜͝͞ ̴̳̜̠͔̘̗̰̦͍͟ͅb̸̞̣̩͖̰̖̮̣̞̺̠͍̀͢͜͞é̝͓͕̳͉̤̠͇͇̗̰̬̰̰̫̹͢͡c̭̙̭̦͔̥̺̻͎̼̩̼̕͘͜͡o̹͍̤̫̳͔̟͡m̸̛̤̘̟̳̪̪͈͠͡͠e̶̷͔̪̰̺s̢͙͔̥͔̜ ͏͏͍̤̮̪̙̬̯͓͍̪̹ͅa̸̸͔̬̙͙͎͚̪̳̱͔̹g͘͏̡̛͈͎̫͇͙͎͙͚̮͓͖̘͎͉͉͘ọ̷̡̙̙̦̼͇̗̲̱͉̼́͡n͘͏͕̺̯̻͘ͅý̜̦̲̰͚̲͎͕̪̕͠ͅ ̤̪̞͙̀͞͡ẃ̡̕͜͏̬̤͔̘͍̝̠h̶͕̯̪͖̼̻̤̤̳̲͕̹̬̻̭͍͢ḛ̺̯̪͕͙̙̮͘͟ń̵̨͓̳̫͡ ̮͈͖̝͉̖͈̟̥̞̭̙̱̖̲̼̀ͅͅe̴̬͚̬͕̯̩͝v̴̨̼̲̱̗̯̙͉ͅe̵͝҉̱̞̼̬̺̪̖̝̩͙̜̞̺̪͘ͅŕ̩͉͎̥̗̗̞̱̗͖̫̪̯̙͘͘͠y̷̨̘̱̖̖̙̺̬͍ ͡҉̞̜̤̠͉̰̘̜͕̪͕͍̥͙͓͖̯ͅͅm̴̡̲̮͚̙̭͉̠̺̼̹ó̵̖͇̭̟͔͓̝̦̝͙̗̘̤̫͔̫̘̺̫͘͟r҉̵̧͇̪̲̠̥̰̀͞a̵͓͔̱̖l̵҉̷̯͚̼̟͞ ̬͙͉͔̦̭̝͈̩̟̣̗̬̣͘͘͘c̀͞҉҉̩͓͍͉̱̩͙͎̤̠͎͓̙͕o̷̡҉҉̫̖̘̥̺͎n̷̵̖̜̦̪͉͎̤̕̕͞ͅv̡̞̹̺̳̤̺̮̤͉̩͖̖̩̱͍̰͟į̵̴̟̯̟͚̼̰͙̫͔̫͉̼͖̀́c͏̸̝͖͈̣̥͇̼͢t̸҉̖͔͎͓͙͕̲̞̲̫i̡̡̧͈̻̩͙̟͠͝o̶̸̧͚̬̯̟͍̟̬̖͕͙̭̞̗̦̘͢͞n̵͢͡҉̰̯͈ͅ ̛̻̹̱͎͕̼͇̮͇̟̹̮̟̞̬̻̕͢ͅy̡̫͖̮͚̪͖͓͟o̷̡̭͚̮͔͖͇̜̙͇͓̺̪͚u̧̨̢̯̫̬͖͚̼̝͎͚̩̠͚̰͓̳̺'̸̴̛̻͙̤̫̣̻̝̺̀͢v͙͕̠͎̩̭̪̞̖̥͔͕̱̰͙̠͉̘͝͝e̸̶̬̻̝͇̥̙̪̺̟͓̜̱̬̜̳ ̨̟̖̠̰̠́͡ę͕͇̩̙̩̪͎̞͇͓̺̺v̶̛̜̗̖̣͓̬̫̲̣̺è̤͎̭̟̥̼̲̞̥̯͘͡r͖̞̖̪̭̘͎͖̱̤̼̩͉̹͎̖̀̕͢ͅ ̵̺͓̩̙̰̻̘͉̜͈̝̦̗̗̼͜͝m̸̧̛̩̼̣̘͔̖͔̝͢a̵͍̟̜̲̭̟̞͝d̶̨͍̹̮̜̪̻͙̫͕̦̬̦̻͇̀͠e̢͙̬̠̙̺̪͔͖̪̹̦̗̦͡ ̶̧̨̯̫̘͇͍͙̼̖̼̻̟̦͍̜͙̭̤̠͟o̴̦̞̫̜̳̬̪̼͈̝͝ͅŗ̴̨̩̦̱̼̭̭͎͉̟̯̘̗͇͉͟͡ ̴̶̨̘͍̠̰̲̤̱̣̭͙̻̺̩͝ͅc̕͏̢̨̡̝̮̫̮̩͔̜̯͉o͟͞͠͏͚͉͎̲͇͟n͏̷̥̭͎̲͚̞͚̻̯͍̭̝͖͖̘͎̙ͅf̴͙̳̞̬̫̘̗͕͢͢͝ͅṟ̷̨̨̛͓̣̤̼̮͉̩̮̭̱͚͡ò̵̫̹̯̼̭͍̱̯̻̥̫͈̖̫̙̻̤͚̠͜͡n͡҉̷̞̦͎̘͇͎̟̲̺̜͙̖̱̹͍̺͇t̵̡҉̘̹̥̦̤̙͓̹̥̦͍͎e̕͏̤̫̠̱͓̘͉̤̩̜͍̗̯̻̣̪̤d̸͇̤͍̣͈͎͔̲̺̜͕̝͎̰̜̞̘͇ ́͏͏͙̼̤̱̤͍̥͍ͅi͏̱̼̺̯̻͇̱̣̫̦͓̦̯͡s̭͇̯̜̭̤̗̀ ̶̵̴̗͙̠̗͇͔̻̺͇̺̳͚͟͝m̩̻͔̲͔͕̭̫̬̗͇̫͚̘̗͍̜͢͝e̶͏̶̡̩͙͍̥̝̲̙̘̥̩̲̗͢ͅͅa̷̫̫̱͈͝ņ̠̭̼͙̺͓̳̝̦̙̀͜͞t͏̡̜̺̙̯̫̟̜͕̥͚͓̣ ̸̢̖͉̯̟̺̬̺̱̜̩̦̖̣̟͝t̨͚̻̹́͟͢ͅo̵̤̗͔͙̘̝͔͚̬̺̲̙͙̱͙͘ ̨̦͕̦̻̫̖̘̝̩͉̠͎͍̱͢͡͞b̢́̕҉҉̺͓͙̲͙̝̻̦ͅe͇̤̞̫̼̖̞̮͚̱̟̫̳͙͘͢͟͢ ̶͕̞͖̭̀b̸̭̳̞̻̼̤͍̱͝͡r̵̴̹̠̭̝͇̀̕͡o̴̻͉͍̮̹̹̫̫̱̘̠̞͔̺k̡̬̜̹̟̖̪̥̲̱̼̣͜e̶̴̡̖͚̱̹̘̭̲̦̗͈̮͢n̵̨̛̥̲̥͓̭̩̟̤̥̹ ͢͏̛͉̹̟͇͚̖̻̹̯̱̪̞͉̞̯̬ͅi̴̹̤͕̬̞͎̘̼̜̹͍͖͙̤̥͟͝ͅn̛̗̲̞͙̯͘͟͠ ̸̛͈̦͇͚̻̻̪̮̞̩͓̻̫̦̦͙͎t̴̵̢̼͉͎͖̜̮͍̜̠̳͔͈͎̕͜h҉̵̶̰̗̥͎͉̳͕͖͉̙̤̜͚͎̱̥̜̕͡ͅè̠͎̤͉̞̠̤̠͚͍̰̬̖̼̭͇̮̠ ̸̡̡̛͔͙̳͇̜̫͓͈̥͈͚̙̭̯͞w̵̕҉͔̠̹͇͙̼͍͖̲̤͕̹̫͈͔͎̕ͅa̵̢͜͢҉̠̗̭͉̳̝̹ḱ̖̜͇̠̩͉͎̠e̛҉̴͓͍̼̱̝̜̤͠ ̡̼̪̮͙͍̟̳́͜͠o͏̧̞̪̝̳͚͈̙͔͖͇͍͚ͅͅf̶̸͕͎̩̼͚͝ ̶̨̨̬͚̪̫̗̱̭̰̭̪͘a̧͝͝͏̱͎̬̩̜̤̞͖̞͇̟̯̖̻̫̲̟n̵̶̛̛̲̱̫̺̮͎͍̼̙o͎̘̩̮̲̫̺̬̥̺͎̩͙̬̩̮͈͖͢͝͝͠t̡͚̺̣̠̩̤̕ͅh̵̡͠҉̻̺̝̟̣̯̲͚̯͇̲̘̮͕͙ͅe̶͎̤̭͕͚̰͚̱͍͖̗ŕ̷̛͕̤͍͔͚̫͔͍̳̼̱̱̬͚̫̹̳ͅ'̸͏͓͈̰͚͓̳̬̦͇̰̲̝̱͈ͅs͚̣̗͚̼̙̲̮̜͓̪͝͡͝ͅͅ ̢̳̫̮̼̩̝͘͢͠ţ̥̲̗͙͉͓̞͘͡͠e̡͉͖̜̫͓͎̺̜̗̪̦̕͘ͅa̧̦̬͎̞̤̱̩̙̮̣̜̞̣͈̬̮̥r̷̹̦̭̩̼̥͇̀̕͟ͅs̝̱̳̭͇͚͎̳͔̲͈͎̟͝.͓͕̳͚̩̰̞̲̕͡͡͞  
̴̛̟͖̖̥̲̬̠̣͍̪͖͖̟̗͓̮̀͝͠  
҉̢̣̝̹͖̦̣͙̺̞̙̹̗̗̣̪͖̦̗́  
̵҉̴̫͙̠̲̲͚̖̹͎͓̜̞̺̕͠  
̴͟͡͡͏̭̟͖̘͎̱̟̲ͅ  
̴̷̴̧̡̯̖̱̳͎̭i̧͍̟͔̦̳̟̼͢͡͞n̶͜͏̴̢͎̲͙͔̦̬͉̦ ̶̸̳͙̘͓̰̯̖͍̞͝͠t̵̵̡̺͚̦̳̙͎̰̥̼͖̹͕̗̳̤̙͉h̴͚̝̯̥̻̪̼̗͚͚͍̜͔̬͉é̶̟͇͚̫̳̣̪̮ͅ ̶̦̹̙̞͇̳̟̠̩̱̼̬͢c̷̴̢̡̘̹̳̺̱̣̘͈͚͚͚̠̜̰̖͎͔̀á̛͡͏͉̥͙̣̠̳̩͢p̴͉̪̳͈̰͈͚̻͓̱͎̙̭͙a͏̵͎͉̪̝̮̙͚͉͙͓͕̳̣c͖͙͉̺͎̺̘͚̥̣̪̻̰͇̦̤̕i̛̭̱̮̫̹͚̜̰͈̤̺͟͡t̸̻͈͚̱̞̲̟̲͓͢͡y̢̧̧̼͈̗̥̜̗̠͎̺͠ͅ ͉̝̗͕͍̘̙̘͕̦̀͡o̷̧̙͖̝̭̥̪̜͞f̷̜͕̺̙͚̺͉̲͇̩̳͔ ҉͉̩̮̳̮̼̞͚͙̻̪̞͍̠̫̱́m͏̧͈͚̱͚͖̳y̷̦̞̭̗̹͖̟̠̤͇̤̤̖̕ ̡͞͏͕̯͙͍̬̤̹̹̜͈ͅe̵͢͏̴͎̺̣̣̻̠̱̳̘̳̰͈̮̯x͏̡̖̠̞͙̻̰̦i̼̹̭̤̦̱̘͉͍̻̙͖̥̣̳̭͓̕͝͠ͅs̳̜͔͇͍͜ţ̶̛͍̬̣̥̞͖͇̬̙̺e͔̺̣̙͈̹͍̼̱͉̤̹̜̭͘͢͝͠n̷̶͢͏̭̩̼̠̦͖c̸͚̣͚͖̩͢e̢͉̬͍̗̺͕̘͖̙͎̹̬̕͜͝͝ͅͅ,̷̰̝̼̪̞̤̤́͘͞͝ ͚͇̘̟̹͞i̵̧̼̤̟͉͍̳̦̪̰̳̼͖̞̫͟͢͟t̸̛̛̛̰̟̺̩̯̳̻͕̞͕̕ ̤͙̫̥̪̞̝̬͍̲̣́į̡̙͎̜̘̞̥̩͖̻̗̙̯̝̟̠s̖̞̩̺̤̘̯̭̳̯̦̰̱̻͕̱͞ ҉̡̹͍͈̥̤͎̘͍̟̝̩̠͜n̡̯̟͍̜̖̲͓̪̞̰͎̺̦͎̗͟ͅơ̲͚̥̘̩̮̮̼̲͖̥͇͘ͅt͏̫̹̻͚͕̼͚̳̗͇͞ͅ ͢͢͟҉̺̱̮̬̭͈͈̩̩͈̞̲͈u̧͕̦̘͜͢͠n̗̻̱͇͓͞͡c̸̡̤͎̣̦̟͍ͅo̗͙͕̥̞͍̲̻͈̕͟͞m̵̷̘͓̼͇̖̫͍̤͖̭̞̫͡͞͞m̶̸̴̨͉̪̳̘̙o̸̢̙͍̟̣̫̖̗̻͇̜͚͉̞̕͢n̷̵̛̯̪̦̼͎̱͔̲̼̟̞ ̝̖̥̮̳̳̝̬̟̩͉͈̦͕̤͟͜͢ͅṱ̢͎̻͚͇͔͎̤̜̳͉͇͇̱̥͈̞͞ͅò̹̟̰̤͉̻̤̗͓̻͇̞̞͙͢ͅ ̸̡̟̺͔̻̪̰̜̠͘è̶̖̻̳͖͔̗͈̦̝̯̲̠͞x̶̨̡̀҉̠̻̞ͅp̢͢҉̘͉̱̜͚͠ę̭͉̯̼̫̀̕̕͝r̶̥̼̗̙̪̥͙̫̀ḭ̴̡̧̯̤͚͇̘̠͉̳̟̹̞̹̕͜e̶̗̠̼͓̤̜͎̰͖͎̻͔n̴̸̶͖̭̩͓̫͉̦̞̣͉̼̤c͏̹̻̘͕͕͖̫̝̱ͅe̵̛͖̭̮̳̠̗̜̙̬̣̞̘͉͕̣̕͢ͅ ̵̶̡̡͎̰̦̼̼̠̼̤̤̖t̛́҉̱̺̖̞̝̰͕̻̹͈h̸͙̙̮͍̳̺̼̹̠̟̺͎̩̠͜͟͢͞ͅe̸͇̺̩͚̝̣̲̱̖͕͙̞̮̜̠̯͝ ̸̴̢̱̙̠̬̗̰̳̟̥͓͙̞͙͜͟ͅp͎͍̘͍͉̥̗̪̥̝͜r̷͉̩͙̥̳̦̲͔̯̪̩̯̣̹̰̟͠͞e҉̭͔̜̳͔̰̝̗̹͓̗͙͞ͅś̡̝̻̳̖͜͟e̶̶̘͕̯͙̳̞̭͙̟͎͡n̛̞̞̹̖̝̬̘̫̥͓̕͜͜͝t͏̫̥̖̲̥̙̥̲́͢͠ ̀͜͟͏̝͖̭̖̝̥̼̱̳̠͉̥̯͔̤̩a̶͎̲̱̫̙͉͉̮̺̕͝ͅl̵̷̨̗̜͓͉͇̼̜̭̳̱̫̩̻̥͘͜o̵̧̤̤̝̪͇̣̞͙̲̲͚̺͖̭͉͟͝͠n̴̫̯̠̖͈͖͉͚̠̼̤̬̟̕͜g̶͠͏̡͚̥͍̯̺͡s̲͎͙̫̼͖͚̫̖̭̀ͅį͚̦̼̦̖̞͙̩̲͜͠ͅd̛̲̜̻̤͠ę̴̺̟͕̦͓̤̦̣͚̺̤͢ ͏̶̶͕͇̭͈t̴̝̟̝̬͎͔͉̲̜̪͎̕͠h̲̘͙̫̙̝̣̖̭̕͝e̴̷̛͏̺͎̣̞͙ ͕̭̟̤̝̝͔̲͓͚͖̀̀p̴̡̫̙͔͔̬̼͓̯͘͘͢a̵̸̡͇̘̥͙͕̮̺̖̟̭͇͍̬̺̘͎̹̟̤̕s̀҉͏̴҉̺̼̠̳̞̗͕̜ͅt̀͜͝҉̢̖̭̱̤̩̘͇͓̜͎ ̶̘͔͙̩͍̠̤̮͉̻̬͚̦̦͉̤͘ͅa̸̳͓̭̞̝̠͉̱͙̲͓̼̕͝͠ͅn̷҉̡̫̥͎̬͇̮͕̥̫̯̝̟̬̮͙̘͡d̶̵̞̰̝̼̳̰͕͓̭̮̱͔̙̪̫͖̕͞ ̨́͢͏̟͔̝̭̯̝̠͓̲̞̘̤̩̟f̴̶̲̩̳̖͈̼̻͜ư̷̵͖͍̥̱͍͡t̸̡͖̻̗̠͓̣̜̱̫̳͎̯̭̭̹͔̮͟͟ͅͅu̶̡̟͖͚̪͝͝r̛̀͟҉͕͎͍̺̥͓͓̘̻̙͍̳͖͖̲ͅe͏̨͕̪̫̲̫̣̗̥̱͔̦̫͠.̷̵̢̘͍̼̙̬̞̖͇̤̘̯̠ͅ  
͜͏̢҉̶̗̯̝̖̜a͏҉͢͏̯͙̪̹̣͈̭̖̝͕̫̼̠s̷̺͍̳̣̭͎̳̺̗̝̰̣̥͓̘͓̥͠͝ ̶̡̧͔̬̺͈́͞i̢͈̗͙̘̬̥̪͔̠̭̩͜͢t̫͉͉̜̫̭͢͝ ̛̻̭͍̮͓̮͖ͅś̵̢̡̗̲͖̤̝͉̙̹̲͈̘̬͓̱̥̟̯͝ṭ̸̥̼͙̤̠̮̙̱̳̘̠͈͡a̱͎̖͕̙̩̗̦̹̪̻̭͡͞n̵̰̖̻͎̹̘̣͍̹̪͍̯͔͎͚͘d̷̢̻̯̬͈̩̭̥̟͎͖͈͕͇͉̤̬̞̹͡ͅs̵̛̞͈͍̘̣͚͠ ̵̨̱̬͖̲̹̪ţ̛̲̭͎̣͉͕̜͘ͅh̷̨̰͓͈̲̣̼̻͡i̦̩̩͚͈̼̭̲̜͈̳͕̠̭̱͙͘͘̕ͅs̢̛̱͕͈͇̘̬͎̙̤̤̙̱̗̳̀ͅ ̵̴̪̰͕̙̀͡n҉̢͏̪̰̖͕͈͙̗͉̦̝̗̠̯͎͎͝o̺͚̺̠̤͙̯̳̫̬̰̪̗͓͟͞w̷̸̨͟͏̳̰͙̰̹̲ ̧̛̖̘͓̜͙̜̥͇̠̙͢͢͜ͅt̸̨͖̖͓͈̼͚̦͔͖̻h̢̢͖̻̙͕̮͞ͅe̤͚̲̲͉̘͇̯̘̟̺̠͔̟͍̹̲͜͢ŕ̠̬͙̹͓͔̣̱̝̳̦̪̜̟͙̝͕͞e̵̢̥̦̠̭̦͟ ̶̡̮̯̟̪͇̖̩͈̦̤͡w̵̠̻̳̝͎̼̘̞̕i̵̛͈̘̩̰͖̙͎͚͍̠̪̠̳͚̖̱̣̜̙͢l̷͢͞͏͏̖̤̘̮̮̝̪͓l̶̨҉̵̤͇̗̰͜ ̢͚̩̺͔̣̟̥͚̺̬̮͚̠͕̰̣̝̘͘ç̴͚̘̭͙̪̯͜o̭͔̹̠̯͈͢ͅḿ̨̲̮͍͝͡é̶̷͚͍̭̯̲̜̝̣̠̤͍͜͝ ͏̖̺͍͖̳̩̝̭͇͎̱̩͈̺̣̀͢ą̸̧͚̳̫̣̠̦̠̣̠̫̖̗͉̰̜͇̣̯͙͡ ̵̲̝̗͙̞̦̜̠͝t͏̵͖̣̙͈̫̘̪i̵͖͇̳̲̞̪̦͍͚̕͡͞m҉̧̦̘̭̻͉̪̪̤̯̥͙e̡̢̥̬̺͉͇̤̫̫̩̼̥̙͉͘ ̩̻̘͍̼̤̠͕̹̀͝ẁ͙̗͈̲̠̜͙͓̕͢h̯͇̬͡e͕̟͍̹͘͟r̸̢͙̻̹͔͍̗̪̦̫͚̬͈̞͖͢e̴͠͏̮̦̭͓̤͕̙̺̗̜̗̩͉̱̟͍̠͓̟ ̴̵̛̖̝̺̘͓̤i̵̶̤̻̳͇̺͇͚̖̼̙̝̼͖̣͈̮͠ ̧̢̞̯͕͕̰͖̰͈̭̦̜̣̖̰̲͎̣͝ą̢͇͎͔̤̱̱̹ͅm̨͍̖͚͔̲͉̳̙̺̟̜̻͚ ̷̵̛̞͚̭̬͔̟̦͕̣̬͘͡a͘͏̲̬̳̣̯͚ͅl͏̢̘̰̭̙͉͇̼̣̠̼͚̫͈͔̼̟͎l̵̩̥̹͙̖̬̟͝͝ ̵̸̛͍̫̖̻̻͙̭b̢̞̳̥̞̩̹͓̜͞ứ̶̦̘̗̬͍̮̫̪̯t̶͙̦͖̭̺̯̖̩̯̝͙́͘͝ ́҉̛̣̣̤͈̪͈̖̰ͅf̨̢̛̥̗̜̮͉̼̯̟̯͈͍̦̪̗͇͝o̝̠̱̻̣̣̙̰͎̦̩̲̱̕͘͢ͅr̪͔̪͕͈̟̝͙̬̤̭̥͎͎͔̙͎̀͜g̸̛̣̯̲̖̯̹̦̘̙̩͖̲ͅo͏̬̜͓̤̻̼̹͓̗̤̥̝̘̞͕͟ͅt̵̴͖̹̤͇͔͢t̸̨͓̭͓͎̺̹̥̤ȩ͔͍͕̹̬́͟n̶̸̵͎̖̜͉̬͙̬̱̯̟͠.̶̛̛͚͈̺͠͠ ̨̕̕͡͏̫̩̟ņ́҉̪̭͎̝̳o̡̢̥͇̫͎͢ṱ̸̡̩̥̺̲̳̤͎̤̮͇̱͡ ̵͏̠͎͓̦͎̞̯̪̩̪͓̙̘̮͇͎̀͟͢q̶̗̝̯̞̜̹̳̤͈̦͘͟͡ͅu̷̶̹̤͎͖͎̹̹̯̜̖̰͔̙͢͜ḭ̵̛͎͚̳̹͇̳̖̜̠̣͞t͏̸̡̛̙̫͇̙̬̹͈͙̥̩̦̥͖̣̫͔̙ḛ̢̧͇̝̫̰̖̻̣̺̗̼͍͔͇͔̝̗̙͞͡ͅ ͙̮͔̝̘͙̹͚̟͉̀̀͜͠f̛͏̬̮̙̣̠̭̙͓̺͠o̶̡̖͔̬̹͈͟r̴̨̳̟̬̱͍͚͓̼̙͔̝̯̰g̢̣͇̻͙͙͍̳̺͙̰͓͍̗̜̺͎͈̦ơ̡̻̫͓͖͇̮̥͡t̴̺̼͔̠͞͡ţ̶̜̙̫̗̞̝̙͉̹͉̝͍͢͡ͅè͇̤̤̹̗̮̩͚͘͠ṋ̴̸̨͎̣̘͎̺̻̼͍̣̝̩̥̜̖̹̰̥ ̧̛͔͎̖̗̙̞͇͈̣͙̳̀̕a̷̵͍̪̰̲̲̩͇̗͔̼̦͖̕͝͝ͅs̵̠̹̹̣̥͙͘͡͝ ̸̘̞̪̘̻̤͍̠̹͔̀í̶̘͔̲̪͉͖̥̱̣̙̟t̸̀̀͢͏̤̝̝͈͍͈͓͕̗̜̝ ͔̦̬̟̯̭͔̺͓̣͔̹̪͞͝ḓ̢̛͍̠͙̠̥̻̹͎̩̩͚͍̝̦͢͠o͢͢͞͡҉͕͙̞̠͈͔̠͙̮̤ȩ̠̱̤̥̞̼̗̩̩͉̖͓̭̤́͟͢͝ṣ̴̴̷̛͚̤͔͓͉͠n̶̸̢̘͙̟͍̞̦̗͙͎̫̰̱̬̺̘'̪̮̤͙͖̝͚̬͍͖̖̕͢͜͜͡t̸̵͓̦͓͖̰̻̠̹͇͡ ҉̸҉̘͕͕̞̙̬́͝ṟ̢̛̛̥̪̹̳̭̜͓̬̭̦̪̜͕̙̹̮ͅe̸̸̵̗̰͓̹̭͜͡ś̵̡̜̪̺͖̰̬̪̤̳̫̀ͅé̴̴̯͙̳̙̗̩̤̻̦͚̭̩̳̰͇ͅm̶̼̟̤̱̙͠ͅb͝͏̵̸̶̩͍͍͕͉̟͎̟̳͉̯͉ĺ̨̜̼̭͍̣̱͔̪̜̩̳͉̼̫͍̀̕͡e̷͔̮̤͇̗̘͇̝̝ ̵͇̟̙̦̞̠͖̙̹̭̖̗̙̳͈̱̤̘̕͟͞ͅţ͎̖̰̪̘̺̥͍͖͙̯̙͍͓͓̗̯̜h͏͕̱̲͙̯̖͓̭͚̥̫̝̝̫̙͡͠è̶̟̘̦̙͓͚̝̯̫̲̳ͅͅ ̶̶̞̹̻̲̘͈̪̼̗̰̬̯̲͉̪͉̮͈s̷҉̵̩̞̳̝̹͚̦̙͈̝͉̜͙̥̝̀͢ͅţ͎̗̦͇͍̠͎̳͙̙͍̫̖̙͝à̸̴̛͉͙̲̤̺̯̣͙̞̱̩͇͚̥͔͎ͅͅt̷͏̝͙͚̲̻͘ȩ̮̙̩̤̲̞͓̻͡ ̧̹̦̗̼̪̤̩̰̭͕̖̝͢͠i̢͇͖̯̬̞̩̙̠̣͔̮̕͟͜͜ǹ͚̪̻͉̺̤̭͚̺͍̝͕̘̖̲͈͚͔̕͠ ̛̣̦̥̻͓̝̯̗͔̤̣ẁ̵̲͈͖͍͜h̷̬̜̜͇̮̗̣͔̰̀i̷̛͞͏͎̮͔̣̝̮̲̣̼̱̪͉͖͙͉̯̠̟c̀̀͏̧͇̹̗̥͕͙̭̤͔̖͎̙̭̝̜͍̥̝h̵̡̤̜̝̜͕͙̹̮̩̤͙͓̰͓́͞ͅͅ ̶̵̱̰͉͈͉̳̕͞͠b̢̘̣̖̲ȩ̵̷̧͚̳͇͇̜̱̥͈̕f͞҉̥̫̻́ǫ̘͉̜̲̠͔͔̣͞r̸̶̛̥̼̤̬̰͙͕̜̟̜̭̼̗͖͕͘ͅe̷̠͕͈͔̰̟̠̳̺̱̪̳̲̺̦̻͟͢͝ͅ ̸͔͙̺͙̩̠͚̖̲͜͟i̭͍̺̺̪͕̯̪̺͝͞ ͈̦̳̤͉̫̖̲͔̗̖̣͉͍͔̕͜͠e̷̷̢̧͍̟̼̩̱̩̜̪̣͙̰̞̯̬͎̘̳͟x̷̴̜͍̝̩̼̗͔̘͓̯̯́̕͞i̺̬̜͖̰͘s̨̫̳̤̼̬̘͈͔̺͚̘̖͔̕t͞҉҉̱͔̪̹͓͕͙̼̳e̸̢̳͚̙͈̙̠̣̪̠̗̗͖̝̠̯̹͈͢͜ͅd̸̶̡̛̻̤̣̥̪̬͔̺̞̼̘͍͡ ̴̧̢̡͖̹̹̰̘͞i͏̷̟̩̤̰̖̤̗͔̟̙͇̥̙̝̹͇ͅn̤͔̝̩̪͘͠ ̵̷̨̢͎͖̠̜̮͇̤͇̻̝̝͓̝͘s̷͘҉̸̴͚̣̳͓̟̺͔͉̠̘̺u͢͏̰̦̮̳͖͇̥̤͓̺̦̼̫̱̘̫̰́͟c̸͍͔̠̳̖̝͔̳͖͖̰̀́͟h̵͞͝҉̛͉͔͍̯̼̫̳̫͕̗̲͉̞̝̫ ͏̢͍̝̫̤̰̹͎̪̬͖͍̬͍̫̩̺̜̭͘à̪̝̼̖͍̺̜̳͘͘ͅ ҉̟̥̭̣͍̝͙̲̳̘̭͓̹̠͜͝c̶̠͇̝͈͔̫͞à̶̜̯̲̞͓̤̻͙̥p̴̢̨̪̙͚̖̦̙̻̬̻͈̙̬̯͓͓͔̩̮ͅa͏̛̯̖͖̖̻̱̯́͝c̪̹̘̪̞͎͇̫̭̞͚̲̳̙̤̰͕̩͘͡͝i͏̸̤͓̞̰̪̕t̸̛̰̼̘̙͔̻y̷͔̝͔̭̯̙̕͞ ͏̛̖̣̬̳͢-̶̘̗̠̖̥͈̜̼͉͇̣̫͢͞ͅ ̷̡̨̣͓͎̮̝̬͓͔̙̩͚̲̻͈͓͓͘͜ṋ̴̡̮̘̰̳̰̙̪̺͚̗̺̺̰͡͝ͅo҉̸̛̀҉̤̪͉͎̺̟ ̵͚̦̫̮̤̼̜͎̠͉̰̭̩͉̯́a͏̵̢͙̩͖͎̭̬͈̱̜́͠ͅn̸̢̥͈̤̱d̸̨̧̨̞͎͈͇͉̤̤̥̣͉̲̠̻́ͅ ̷̲̹̙̩̖̰̜͔̘̮͈̪̜̀̕͡ͅa̴̯̩̲͔͎̥̫͡ģ̵̣͍͉̻̠͇̠̭̭͇͡͠ͅa̦͖͍̮̥̣̰̘͕̟̪̙̟̼͢͝į̴̶̳̩̗̝͖̙͎̟͓͕̖ͅn̸̢͡͠҉͚̝̮̲ ̵͉̪͈̱̯͖̫̞͚̼ͅn̸͈͖̣͙͓͚o͏̡̨̠̮̝͉̺̝̭̼̰͔̫̱̦̜̘͍͚̗͜͡.̡̡̰̠͍̺̥̭̖͙͔̲̣̟̭̙̠̹̖̮́ͅ ̛͈̩͓̝̰͈͉̗̦í̢͍̝̘̩ń̵͖̘̥̝̪̠̻̤͙̗̗̣̙͚͘s̢̕͢͞͏̻̹̬̩͇͉̮̞̩ṭ̸̸̟̗̥̦͎͖͎̘͔͕͇̗̞͘é͏̶̝͉̦̠̥̩̳̱a̧͉̬̼̠̜̠͘͜͡d͕̹̻̭̣͇̯̬̘̜͖̳̳͍͟͜,̸̸̤͈͚̠͍̗̝̘̠̬̬̮͓̱̱̙̪̀͜͟ ̨͏͓͈͔̲͎͘ì̷̝̦͇̘̪ ̢̜̞̠͉̯͎̟̹͖͖̹͇̭͓̭̯̪̕̕a̕͜͞҉̲͖͓̜̻͉̰m̴̵̠̝͔̹̺̱̠̜̗̪͇͍̤̕͢ ̵̧̘̹̞͔̮͕͉̫͔̪̖̱̥̣̼͢l̢̯̳̼͔͙̭͇̀͞͠í͇͙̯̤̯̰̠͙̞͡k̵̡͖̲̥͕̖͚e̶̡͘͢҉̭̝̝̙͔͍̰̣̘͓̦̳̫̭̩͖̬̫ ̷̧̹̩̥̲̙̭̫̜̲̦̮̹̪̟̥͚͟͠ͅą̜̯̗̘̭̹̩̲͙̪̭͜ͅ ̴̧҉̷̠̭̣̺̟̹̯̗͙͎͖̬̺̻̗̩͈̕g̷̴̸̴̰̲̺͎͓̜̹̙̭̝̞h̷͝͏͚̳͕̖̟̮̲͔̣̝̱̟ò̸̡͓̥̰̺͎͕̤̥̯̠̼͖̘͚̜s̡͢͡͞҉͍͓̘̤̯͙̭̳͕͉͍̲̥̱̞͕̩̩ͅt̸͕̟͔̲̥̼̞͔͙̘͜͡,͏̵̡͇̭̝̼̙͓̫̳̙̼ ̝̮̰͔͍͚̜̺̘̞̭͙̱͘͜ͅh̸̛̛̲͔̟̟͈̼͟͜a̛҉̶̬̤̲̮̣̞̥̻͈͞͡u̧̢͚̦̩͉̟̼̣̹͚̥̙͙̜͍ṋ̷̡̨̗̳̪͇̬̀t̷̡̬͙͔̺̺͞i̷̛̝͈̤͇̼̘͢͡ņ̵̵̲̠̬͔̻̮͓̜͓̭͖̙̥̥̠̲̙͕g͏̸̴̻̭̗̫̝̼̞̣͠ͅ ̴̀͘͏̰̟̫͚̝t̢̬̥̼͓̙͓͇̗͎̰͖̝̦͕͙̭̹́͜͢͝h̷̴̟͈͈̫̝̞̖̪̭̲̫͔̩̻̠͡͞͞è͇̟̗͈̱̰͎̭̱͜͝͡ ͏̛̩̝͖̲̲̪͇͕͇̥͚͇̣̠̭͓͟o̸͠͏̠̰̲̻̙̪̗̝̣̯̲̹̬u̢̺̠͈̙͔̮̟̖̹̫͖͕̳̣̜̫̥͕̞͞t͜͜͝͏̨̗͓̬̹̥̪̙̯̬̹͙̥̘̱͎̦̫s̭̝̼͇̣̦̻̘̜͚͉͇̺̦̖͘͠ͅk҉̶̴̼͖̝͚̰̭͕̺̺͔̗̫̟̦̖̟̙̬͢͜į̪͎͙͎̟̭͉͡r̗̟̬̯̲͕̥͇͔̣͙̰͓͈̩͢ͅt̳̯͍̖̞̩̘̥́͡ś̵̸̨̳̦̳̫̦͍̼̕ ̠̦͕̘̘̤̜͇́͟o̢̡̫͕̫̦̜̘f͖͍͖̤̖̳̝̣̱̖̰̙́͜ ̧̟̰̼͚͔̹͎͕̥̗̪̫̩͍͟g̠̪͍̤̠̰̲̗̝̻͉̗̯͘͜͡ò̸̢͓̤͚̼͔̘͎̞͔͓͢ͅͅd͚̩͉̞͡͡͡'̵̷͉̖̥͈̤̳̻̮̞͇͖̳͉͕̯s̨̛͠҉͉̫̟̗̺̙̳̮̱̣ ̴̬̺̦͔̣͖͇͕͖̳͕̼͎̲̱͡m̶̧̦̮̹̼̤̬̗͔̪̳͎͖̲̜̕͡ͅi̧̨̦̜̭̙̺̟͖̫̳̻͉̠̩͎̥͝ͅņ̢̮̳̻͍͈͍̦̤ͅͅd̴̨̬̥̹̬̟̮̪̯͢͞.̴̧̥̬̮̤̪̣  
̶̞̝̦̗͕̤̪̫̞̤̀̕ŕ̛̰̮̮͙͍̖̮̰̱͈̮̭e̸͉̩̠̮̳̳̺̩̯͇̖̣̩̼͘͠ͅḿ̝̗̯̝̖̭̼͘͜͞e̸͎͉̳̞̲͔̳̳̖͢͝ͅͅm̤̖͈̰̺̞̞̹̖̥̼̻̀͢b̡̡̭̞̩̲̖͍͕̗̣̖̪͇͍̫͍́̕͜ḙ̶̴̼̫̯͍͈̲̰̩̝̝̜̫̟r̬̮͕͉̕͘͠͝e҉̢͔̤̲̻͈͈̝̙̞̜̣͔̠̗d̯̥̮̟̤͉̭̝̱͔̭̟̣̣̣̰̭͠͠ͅ ҉̰̻̰͔͎̗̬͍̯͝j̼͚̲̦̱̬̫̠̫̜̞̜͈̬̰͉̣͢͞ͅú̶̵̢̺͉̯̜̼͇͓̣̝̗̟̗͈̞̜̠͜s̶̲̱͕͖̬̹̣̲̟̳̦͓͉̭͡t҉̴̗̬̣̬͍͎̺̝̹̪̩̦̠́ͅͅ ̸̛̥̬͉͙͇͍̬̪͞ͅę̴̧̙͚͉̱̗̳͟ǹ͏̴̟͍͙̜̠̠͇̪̼́͘ơ̟̤̖̝̥͍̼̳̹̖̗̜̣ͅu̢͕͇̰̱͝ģ̞͎͍̠͉̻͙̗͓̟͔̻͓̣̦̗̲̤͜h̵̗̞͕̣̟̳̖͈̙͕̥̘͢͡ͅ ̵̳̼͙͔̼̰̩̬̜̭͖̖̱̕t̞̪̠̹̙̱͚̳͉̗̖̞͘ͅͅò̧͡͏͔͉̤̹̘̥̖͇̤ ̻̘̣̟͖͈̼͚̫̙͈̘͈̬͖́͡s̶͏͝͏̺͖͓̬͔̭͓̰͕̘̰̼̠̳͚̟̣e͏͇͚̹͇̙̻͉̠̬̺͞è̵̛̙̮̬͉̟͡ ̠͓͓͚̹͇͔̦̦̫̹͢͞f͏̸̻͓̖͉̮̩̦̪̬̦͜͞l͏̷̴̪͎̙̭̖͖͕̣̖̝̱̳͕͚ạ̷͈̫̘̤̪͢s̨͚̥̹̼͚̹͚̦͚̱̱̰̪̣̼̙̮̀͟͠h̵̢̺̩̬͇ͅè̷͘҉̲͚̘̖̟͓͚̯̘̱̘̩s̵̥͔̙̥̬̙̻͎̮͡ ̨̢͚̗͖̼͇̟͔̞̖̺͘͢o̴̧̜̫̜͚̦͔͚̹͘͜͝f̧͏҉̢͖̳͎̥̺̯̺ ̶̴̘͙͇̤̪͍͎̹̻͍̗͇͈̺̭̘̝̠̀͜͡t͖̰͍̫̺͔͍̫̲̭͉͞͝͞h҉̧͇̗͔̼̺e͡҉͖̥͍̙͞ ̴̨̮̣͚͕̭̀́͡ͅǫ̸͘͜҉̞̠̥̖̥̹̠͕̝u̸̶͙̳̞͈͓̞̯̫̫̗̘̩t̴̳̬̼̹̗͎̲̜͖̜͚̗͚̯͠͝s̢̢̝̝̻̥̤̮̘̫̫̫̻̀ͅì̷̤̣͉ͅd͡͏̢͔̣͈̮͓̯̘̞̰̼̖̥͍͙e͘҉̯̩͍͕͓̪̟͇ͅ ͏̼̜̩͎̮̹͎̬̞͚̩͇͔͜͢͡ẃ̢̟̲̯̰̝̮͔̜̹̱͕͕͈͔̤͠ó͖͎͉̳͇͓̪̫̤͔̩͈̫̫͉̀͘͞r̡͍̖͓̺̻͇̥l̢̛͏̘̦̬̘̤̫̕͟d̴̢̤̤͎̖̦̗͍͓͇̙̝̖̙̠͡ ͡͏͍̳̻̮̦̟̖̲͕̹̬͚͉̭̥̖͔͘͘-̡̹̜͕̹͞ ̷͟͡͏̙̠̦̻t̛̟͚̝̳̺̭̮͎̭̼̤̬̟͙̪͢͝ͅo̶̥̣͈̫͎̤̭̪͕͕̝͈͢ ̵̧͔͙̟̹̪̮͙̰̩̹̗͜b̷̛͝҉̝̙̩͇̩̬͙̯͎̟̜̥̻̻̭͟ͅe̵̷̗̥̝͈͚̺̱̼͔̲͕̜̘̣̖̹̝͜ ̷̵҉̧͖̗͚̳̳̮̟̦̺̮̼̼̜̟̞͚̯͡l̸̷̯̫̩͍̘̘̹͉̪͜͢ͅo̱̙̬͡͝c̬̘̭̮̟̱͢k͜͝҉̟̞͖̭͓̮̤͓̱̀͘ȩ̢̼̪̝̥̗̳͙̝̝͢d̡͏̼̭͙̳͟ ̷̛̛͓͙͇͓͈̘̼̭̹͇͚͙̟̝̼̞̀͘a҉̶̢̦͍̗̥̠̖̭̲̗͎͢͝ẁ̨͕̙̻̺̪̣͔̰͖̘̩̯̬̗̲͚̺͚̹͟͝a̸̞̯̯̠̪̞̰̣̞͜͟y҉̡̝̗̮̪̻̼̥́͞ͅ ̡͏̲͍͚̘͈̳͙͚̲̜̳̹͚̣̲͍̪̞i̵̵̡̗̟̩̫̝͎͖̠̜͔̬̩̜̥̠͓̭̬͢͞n̷̛͖͕̘̬͍ ̰͔̰̜̞͚̩͔̗̗͓̙̝̻̮̭͖̕̕ͅt̸͍̼̲̤̤̤h͖͎͎̺̣͚͓̰̕͟ḛ̴̷̢͇̳̯͔̰͎̀̕ ̨̯̗͙̟̠̠̯͙̖̗̻̯̮̗ͅd̶̀͏͉̞̞̭͈̩͖̦̪͙͍̭e͘͜͏͎̹̯͙̹͕̼͍͎̙͇̻̪͈̝̭̙̭͞p̴̧̨̝̦͍͍̙͉͎̰͙̼̤̟̪̦̥͔͕̕͝t̢̠͍̯̹̼̤͎͔͍̰͈̩̰̮̹̲͓͈͝͝ͅḫ͖̜͇̖͘͝ś̵̡͎̪͉̦̭̮̣̼̠̤̹̣̞̥̞̀͟ ̶͔̻̬̹̦̮̮͙̫̟̳͍̭͎͟͠ͅo͘͢͡͏̶̗͖͈̲̫̙̝̣̘̩̩͕f̷͏̖̪̳̫ ̸͏̵̡̥͕̺͖̦͉̘͙͙̝͍̰͖͠h̛̦̘̭̫̦̺̫͘͟͡͝ȩ̛̤̹̘̩̼͔̩̰̱͓̣̻͈͈̫͚̻̟r̵̫̭̹̀͢ͅ ̙̯̖̝̝̗̬̪̥̬̕͡p̸̡̻̻̼̣̰̗̗̲̘͉͎̜̦͍̺̼s̡̧̼̗̫̼̘̫͉͍̥̹̗̠͇̫̣̜͢ỳ̴̭͔͈̺̰̗̗c̶̬̯͚̟̼̘̣͎̣̦̻͙̦͍̗̦̗͖̱̕h̵̟̳̭̖̦̞͕̬͉̥̖͓̟͎͓̫̀͡͡ͅò̞̖̖̼̰̹̜̯͈͖͇͈̗͙͈̯̺̟́ͅt̸͇̦̜͕͓͇̠̲̤̥̣̪͔͈̘́ͅi̶̱̹͖̩̙͇̝̻͡c̛̹̹̮̣̤͓̫̘̩͕͍͙̩͙̜̠͞ ̸̸̫̪͔̼̖͇͍͔͖̪̩̕͡ţ̴̢͙͚̲͕͎̻͢e̢͕͖̞͉͚̰̰̤̤͔͖͍̤͚̕ͅn̵̵̢̥͙̘͎̦̞̦͖̘̼̭͔͈̩̙̙̦d̢̠͖̲̫̬̣̝̥̟̯̪̹̠̱͘͟͞e̴̴͈̱̺̖̳̼̲̫͎͔͉̬̣͍͕n̴̶̥̜͈̗̦̗̞̼c̢̡̨̯̥͕̤͜͝i̸̶̡̢̞̮̘̭̥̲̖̕e҉̴̨͕̥̺̩͈͖͍͜͞ş̡̮͓̺͉̩͚.̷̴̵̶̛͙͍̬̣̱̗ ̶̫͚̫̗̼̰̼̟͉̦͎̖̲͙̕͢  
̡̨̺̰̝̱̻͍̯̟̱̹̺̳̺̟̤̟̬̪̘́c̨̡̛̥̳͙͙̀̀h̸̶̴̫̗̱̤̘̳͉͉̠͡ͅa̸͉͈̝̬̫̘͍͙͓͖̮̙̻͚̩͘i̗̺̮̟̻͞͠͞͝ͅͅn̡̙̰͈̤̭̖̖̳͇̻̬͉̕͡e̴̛̤̜̖̠̩̥͎͎̦̲͇͉͔̙̭̹͚̗̥d̸̺̠̥̼͓͓̰̟̺̺̖̺̩͜ ̴̶̴̛͔̖̻͙͎̙̻̩̖͍̪̭͘t̶̛̘͈͇̠̼̜̯̙̖͕̲̲ͅo̴̡̨͖̯̫̠̗͉͙̮͔̙͍̯̳͉̗̻͝͞ͅ ̷̢̹̫͉͉͔̳̠̥̫̞͖̭̼̕͠t̕̕͏̖͔̻h̶̟̫̻͙̕̕͢i̺̪͕͈̞̻͜s̶͜͏̷̷͉͓̘͚̺͚̙̪̲̺͎̭̥̱̰̗̲̬ ͓̮̝͈̖͇́͡ͅp͚̹͔̲̻̜̭̲͍̙̟̣̰̬͘͢͠l̢̧̡͈̳͎̞̤̫͉̖̪͜͡à̸̢̩̱̣̥̞ͅc̢̞̯̝̺͙̝̻͉̫͕̖̬͍̳͎͘͘̕͢ȩ͈̟̘̙͢ ̵̸͔̱͕̻̙͍̹̺̻̪̝̣͉̱̦͙͘ì̷͚̣̟̝̳͙̟̟̖̲͖̩n̨̟̹͎̤̝̝̪̟̪͕̣͠ ̵̡̙͚̜͢͠ͅa̧̛̠̞͓̯͙̼̹͔͖̥̤̯͟͢ ̧̮̝̬̻̤́͝͡c͇͎̺̳̝̭͇̤̱̜̤̠͓͓̭͞o̷̢͉̖͓͙̣̕n̷̵̨̻̺̥̯͔̤̬̹͓͢͡s̴̰̬̹̙̠̠̝̱̼͎̤͇̗̯̕͟t̢̠̰̳̺̳̭̞͈̥͍̥̮̤̫́͘a̦̜̖̲̼͚̣͢͡͠͞ņ̵̴̫̮̣t̸̵̟̬̙̫͈̤͔͔̣̥̪̖̞̕ ̵̮͉̟̺̦̥̀͘̕ś̷̨͉͍̟͕̲̟͙̯̖̪ͅt̸̸̸͖͓̳̺̠ą͢҉̗͍̯̘̩̫̞̗̰t̶̺̲̩̘͙̦̩͉̯̘̯͟͞͞͠e͞҉̡̡͔̹̠̝̝̳̩̠̻̘͔̼̭̠̘̹ ̴͏̺̪̣̝ó̝̜̤̻͔̤̟̜̰̞͟͞ͅf̧̨̛̟̞̮̪̮̬̬̩̦͍̝̼̥͔͔́͢ͅ ̛́͏̹͇͇͚̖̬̯͈̤͙̰̻͇̹͇ń̛͍̼̝̹͈̻̜̀͜e̶̸͉̼̖͈̳̝͖̮̘̣̲͘ͅá̵͓̖͓̞̯̦̯̲̮͖̣̰̣͓̗̻͍͘ͅr̶̨̲͎͔̯̫̘̤̪̫̠̲̼̙͈͞͞ ̡͈̰͇̗̫͍̲͍̰́͜͡ͅd̖̭̱̬̗̻͝͞è̷̵̩̼̳͔͘͠a҉̢͍̫̥͕̘̞̻ţ̨̙̹͈̱̬͉h̛͝҉͏͈͇͓͚͕̯̥̖̜̟̙̱̗ ̀҉̷̪̲̜̬͔̹̣̗̦̮̪̻͍̤ͅͅș̢̧̳̩̝̣͓̤̮͞t̡͙͖̙͖̬̼̩̯̬̻͜͟͡ͅa̸̡̢̨̫͓̟̯̩̱̲͖̣͈͓̪̳̪̼̕r̛͇̗̞͕̻͟͞v̧͕̼̩̪̝̘̹͍͜͞a̷̷͎̮̼͚̰̞̩̲͈̻̮̜ͅt͠҉̡͏̨̪̰͓̗̖̗̖̺̹i̡̡̳̘̤̺̯̥̰̜̙̤̩̩̹̠̗͉̟̬ǫ̛̳͍̲̻̳̹͔̝̭͓̖͔̫̳͟͞ͅn̷̲̳͖̣͘̕͡.̧͕͎̙͓͖̻̘̮̘̩̰̜̤̭̯̫͓̞̗ ̡͜҉̵͈̘̣̘̺̹̣̖̣̯̼̠̺̟͓͓͚͎͟b̻̞͖̟̫̙̰̭͙̰͜͝ư̵̝̟̥̗͎̱̬̝͖͉͓̳̦͡t̡͍̹̳̗̟̲̼̲͘͢͢ͅ ̸͍̞͓̭̜̰̤̥̜̖͔̮̟͢͞ͅͅd͈̖̟̮͇̻̙̫͓̟̻̮̞̜̟̞̘͕͖͘͝e̵͍̹̪̻̤͍̮̺̦̱à҉̡̰̰̞͖̙̻̟̬͡ţ̸̼̜̪̼͚͠h̵̙̮̟̖̲̯͎͚͕̩̹͎͎͎̀̕͜͠ ͕͈̠͎͔͡ͅn̶̢̛̺̟͖͍̬͚͡e̪̹͎̺̼͈͘͘v̤̖̟̫̬̣̹̱̻͍̺̪͓̕͡ͅe͏̷̼̬͖̘̜̳͕̣͘͠r̷̮̗͎͔̪͓̲̠͚͓͍̜̣̟͎̀͜ ̣̠̝̜̤͟͜͠ç̸̗̺̥̫̬͙̞̹͈̱̹͓̭͙͠ơ̶̡͕͖͔̪̭͚̭͉͢m҉̨͇̝̝͕̟̞̞̖̜̟̱͙͖̮͇̣̩̠́é͟͏̰͔͔̩̻̲̳̫̳̭̱͖s͏̶̴̟͚͎̯̻̹͝.̫̮̟̘̹͖͈̻̥͘ ̵̨̘̘̪̯̹͈͡  
͜҉̛͙̤̣̟̲̗͚͉̫̫͍͇̙͉̪͍͙͇͢m̶̗͈̥̲̗͕̙̣̣̫͉̠͓̫̪̀ͅy̵̵͎̩͇̻͙͖̼̬͉͈͘͝ ̸̬̦͇̲͍͟ó̸̧̪̟͇͔̠͓͝w̴̴̴̤̗̻̥̻n̼͍̪̪̫̹̭̰͎͇͠͡ ̤͔̤̲̗̘͚͇̩̤̗͓̮͙̲̲̀͜͝ͅv̹̘̞̺̦̦̼͉̪̜̩̤̫̜͉̩̟͜͟ǫ̡͖͖̘̯̪̫̳̻̮͉͖̠̩̠̣́͟i̛̼̙̱̟̗̮͉͙̥̩̭̯̺̻̖̕ͅc̸̪͇̝̯̮̹̞̭͇͎̠̬̼͚̱̦̱͇̗̀͠͝è̺͍̗̩̞̘̯͓͚̟̠̤̥͝͡ ̶̼̘̬͉̯̩̱̕ͅè̙̗̳̙̘͓̦̝̘͇̹̤͚͕̣̩̣͇͘ç̨̝̞̤̻̻͔͎͈̰̀h͈̳̮̜͕̫̯͎̭̼͖͚̠͜ͅo̳̹͙̤̮̭̺͎͘̕͘ͅͅȩ̛͠͏̗̳̗̺͞s̬̩̤͔̹̙͜ ̴̵͕͓̣͖͜b̙̳̗̲̙͓̻͍̜͜͜͝a̕҉͙͚̜̜̤͈ͅc̷̴̤̪͇̳͍̰͔͓͈͇͔̥̻͇͢ḱ̵̛̫̻̱̖̦͍͈̗̗̕ ͚̹̫͚̬͓̕͜͡t̛̠͈̖͕̬͕̳͈̠͓̩͢ò̷̷̹̱͍͕̻̰̭͚̖͙͞ͅ ̺̘̭͎̱͓͚̺̲̥͍̤́͘͟m̸̛̠͙͖͈̜̘̪̯̫͎͔̗̼͜͜e̷̜͍̪̝̜̠̞̘͕̻̪̮̣̖̹̳͚͈̕͟͢ ̴̶͇̪̖͇̦̞̦̲̯͔͚̻̭͟͞a̞̠̝̮͍͘͜͠ͅṉ̳̙͉̠̘̜̬̟͞d̩͍̰͚̝̣̻͓̹̫̖̦͈̞̲̟͓͡͡ ̢͙͇̮̳͍͘͢i̢͏̨͏̞͉̬̫̜͔͕̩̫̫̼͈̘͚͞s҉̫̯͕̳̲̦̫̦͈̻̭͙̩ ̵̦͚̗͔ĺ̛͔͍̙̼̯̦̘͓̪̥̻͕͞͠͝o̸҉͇̟̠͙̟̹̜͖̙̱͚̼͚͢͢ͅͅs̶̀̕҉̩̩̳͇̮̲̻̫̦̥͔̻̟̩̜͉̣̯͉t̛̛͉̦͖̖̠̗̞͕̹̞̱ ̨͚̰̗̙͖̜̪̕ǫ̴̩̘͇̟̰͎̣̣́ǹ̶̲̞̜̕͟͡ ̧̢͍͕͙̮͔̗̯̦̞̼͇̹͍̞̠̝͉̮t̕҉͎̖̯͓͎͍͙͓̖̘̝͡ͅh̢̝̞̗̳̺͘͞e͟҉̶̡̗̜̱̱ ̧̮͉̺̗̱̬͕̜͓̠̬͍̜̲̦̻̦͜ͅr̷̙̱͔̖̠̯͈̯̞̫͚̀͡͠e̵͢҉̴̠̞͔̗ͅs̴͍̯̺͈̪̹̝̫̞̹͍̻̯̫͖͖͎͖͢͞͝͞t̵̴̨̢̗̱͎̩̩̝̤͢ ̛̠̞̦̗̳̬̩̦͚̺̗̲̪̦͢ͅǫ̛̩̺̩̗̳̩̠̪̝̘̱̙̬̙̗͕̫̕͡f҉̸͓̹̝͇̰̤͇̙̠̼̩̬̮̦̬̭͜͝ ̵̠͎̩̗̭̹̥͉t͞҉̴̢̻̬̺͉͓͈̪̰h̨̞̖̣͚̱̫̲̳͝e̷̳͉͙͉͓̥̯̣͇̖͜͡ͅͅ ̶̶́͟҉̠̪͇̭̯͚̜̘̭͉̱̳̦̳̮̮̝̞ͅw҉̀͡͏̤̗̩͖̖̣̳̣̰͎͈̼̮̲̩o͝҉̤͔͎̫͉̹̺̗͈̣͖͉͍̲ŕ̢͈͈̮̱̗̟̺̬̻̰̗̠͉͟͝l̷͚̣͔̜̳̯̪̺͓͍̥͍͓̲͙̦̲̕͜͞͞ͅd̡̰̩͚̰͍̀͢͞.҉̸̵͙̰̥͇͝  
̡͇̮̬̱͉̟̩̲̱̥̱̺̫̖̝̥̩͟͠͞ì̵̪̫̫̹̠̯̭̝̦̜͚͚͔́͜͡ ̶̨̨̠̜̱͍̖̱͙̪͇͡͡ͅs̷̟̩̹͇̩͉͙̰̦̮̝̤̕͞u̢̯̻̣͈͕̪͎̗͙͍̯̙͚̠̯͜͡f҉̶̫͈̥̬̺̼̞̰̜͉̹̖͖̗f̴̶̖͍̼̘͕̪̜̼̤̦͔͚̣̬̜̙͉͈ͅę̵̡̧͔͖̞̹̜̙̖̮͍̜̺̟ŕ̶͝҉̤̠̲̙̯̪͔,̶̛͞҉̻̤̻͓ͅ ̷҉̡̨̫̯̫͕̯͉̯̠̱͡ͅà̴̖̩̫̩͓̮͖͍̜̖̮̺͎̱͞s̴̴̢͎̰̗̰̥̼̠̱̩̳͉̳̯̠̹̼͢ ̷̴̞͇͖̥̖͎̻͟í̴̢̠̦̤̖͈͠ͅ'̷̴̢̧͕̹̹̼͙͈͖͍͇̙̹͓̖̺̪͔͙͈v͖̻͖͓̫͚͕̮̪̘̻̦̞̕e̳̬̟͈͚͙̳͈̗͚̯̥͚͓͕̤͘̕ ̷̷̡̥̫̮̮̦̣̤̘̲̖̙m̷̴̢̙̩̤̜͍̘̥̞̗̮ͅà̻͖̗͉̝̪͕͍̳̘͙̣͔̺̟̪̘̩͟ͅḓ̶̻͈̫͉̕ȩ҉̙̟̘͈̱̯͓̣̘̗͔̦̻͈͈ͅ ̸͢͏̡͔̟̟͈̼͓̤͙̭̭̖̪͚á̧҉̷̷̤̺̭̞̗̠r̜̩̳̲͈̮̞̲͖͖͖̳̦̼͜͡͡t͏̷̶̧̜̜̝̯͟h̕҉̸̡̤̤̜͎̭͍͉͓̠̟͇̣̹̪͟ư̶̤̹̞͕̮͡r̸̴̶̲͈̹̮̞̖̰͎̤̝̠͖̣͡͝ ͎̬̻̲͈͈̝͔̥̳͚̲͕̬͍͔́͜͝ͅs̡̡̲̹͙̘̜̬̬̘̱̟͈̝͇̰͎̥͢ͅṵ̶̱̗̖̦̬̱̩̱̝̪̠͍͓͡͞͝ͅf͏̸̨̤̗̟̮͙͚̻̻̀͞f͡҉͏̟̟̩͖̟̠̱͞é̡̢̛̗̼̖͙̙͚̱͍̯̠̜̝r̵͖̱̞͕̰̖̲͚̦̜̳̗̖̳͞͡ͅ.̴̡̜͎̘̯̟͝  
̶̱̬͔̤̱̱̦̫̟̰̮̼̰̺̦͖͜n҉҉̠̭͔̞̠̳̩͍̣̼̩͙̰̯͔̭ò̷̘̞̯̗͓͍̻̗̱̩̞͉̗͉̫̜̤̼̭́̕͞t̡̪̲̫̥͚͔͕̟̬̬͎̲̲̠̯̠̝͖̯́́̕̕h̛̺̠̩͓͉͎̙̘͎̝͖͇͍̩̤̞̥͖́͟i̴̢̘̟͚̹͚̭̟͇̫̙͎͡ͅń̫͈͍͞ͅg̷̣̣̫͈͍͚̠̦̲̕ ̸̷͔̺̤̼̫͖͚̫̦̹̥̗̗͉͞i̴͘͜҉̛̜͓̩̘̰̜ͅs̴̸͟҉̢̺͖̳̳͉̖̜̖͚͙͕͉̱̥̳ͅ ̢̺͚̹̭͇͙̼͉̩̖̲͉̜̱̺͔̕͟͡w҉̵̜̮̖̘̣͍̘͓̺͓̱͝o̡̯̝̩̰͎̳͟ͅŕ̸̻̯̹̥̮̜̰͔͉̱̘̺̬̗̦̲̥͡s̶̡̛̱̪̞̩̺̦̥̦̳̼̀͞ͅͅé͠͏̵̷̺̘̱̫͔̞͎̝̮̭̪̠̗͙͓͉̜̮ ͝҉̸̰̟͉̫͍̥̺͎̬̥͍̭͙͕̩̭̕t̗͖̫̤̹̖̠͙͓͇̩͎͓̩̦̤̠̠̮͢͜͝͞h̷̨̨̦̦̙̙͓̺̦͎͓̣̲̠͙͔̰̯͝a̭͔̤̣͖̺͉͞͠n̡̡̼̱̮̭͓̞͎͈͉͍̞͓̫͓̰͟͝ ̸̶̀͠͏̭̞͕̥͖͔̱̞̺͎̦͎̞͓̯̫̝̪e̛͇͔͔͔͓̟̗̬̦͔̜̗̰̙̖ͅx̵͏͇̬͕͍̞͎͙͓̗̻̫̹̮͇̪i͝͏̀҉͎̥͍̞̗s̷̢̟̳̹͔͠͠t͕̤͖͉̙͕̗͍̗̬̬̙͔̯̻͍͚́͟͡į̶̛͈͚̝̹̱͉͇̥̥͈͕̘n̴̵̷̺̭̺͚̦̺̭̞̙̜̗̙̪̱̕͝g̴̭̫̜͖̪͓̰̳̣̣̝̺͉̙̭̻͟͝͡ ̶̰͔̩̲̗͎̪̲̹̜́̀͢͞i̶̢̧͖͔͉̜̱̠̱͈̪̜̲̝̹̯͍̞͝ͅņ̛̀͏̷͔̗͉͓̣͚͓̣͈͕̮̳͈̣͎̱̬̗ͅ ҉̧̨̬̼̬̝̦͍͓̳̖̩͠t҉̶̴̡̛̪̣̼̮̼̫̩̫͎̬̪͎̖̤h̛̀҉̙̠͓̗̥̝̥̤̥͖̟̹̠̙̖̬ì̷͔͍͙͕̪̥̰͚̮͉̣̯̜̗͍̳s̸̸̵̢̥̲̣̯͙͞ ̧͟͞͏̫̘̗̯̘s̢̙̻̳̜̙̳͙̳̘͎̫͔t̵̨͚̲͈̩̯̼̮̙̗̜͝a͝҉̶̰̹̩̘̭͇̥̺̺̩̩͇͙̠͍͚̝t̹̰͇͚̥̦̰̣̙͕́̕͜ę̶̠̟̩͍̪̦͚̼̖̹̹̫̱̣͎̭͢ ̨͏̰͈̭̥̪̠o̡̱͔̙̻̯͙̞͇̗̬͙̞̥̪̘̬͉̕̕͠͝f̸̳̖̻̠̖̥͓̥̳͝ ̢͏̷̸̧̭̟̟̺̫̞͖̦̩̯̦͓̻͕̼̤t̢͙̯̖͇̜͓̗͡ͅŗ̷̷̥̻̱̫̪̹̲͎̕a̴͠͏͍̮̲ͅͅń̴̞̼̘̫͚̭̪̼̱̫̺͚̯̼͚͉ͅs̢̨͚̣͕ͅc̷̦̳̺͕̬̩̥̺̞̝͙͍̱͖͍͔̻̬͝e̸͓̬̯̮͘͝ǹ̛͈̱̝͇̖̯d̥͖̲̪̤̤̪̪͘͘͟͢͡ͅe͏̵̵̰̼͍̝̝n̶̮̥̗̘̖̮̝̱̤̙̟̞̕t̸͍͖̫̭̟̥̞͖͕̖̼̣̘̩̱̼̕͜͜ͅa̸̡͈̼͍̬̰͡l͢͏̵̜͙͇͓̰̹͚̳̪̙͙͕̀ͅ ̶̨̩̫͖͓͕̣͇̯͓n̵҉̢̡̫̼̻̱͓͍͖̩̣̣̞̱̜͈̮̮͉͟ȩ̡̛̬̖͕̝̗̩͔̖̳̰͖͉̝͍̯͎̖u̸̶̷̡̪͈̩̠̝̗̜̣̘̲̲̫͉̥͠ͅt҉̜̬̪͕̞̲̠͓r͚̟͔͚͟a̶̩̞̜͙̜͝ḻ̵̴̢̳̘̲̫̜ͅì҉̷̢̫̣̮͍͙̺͎̱̱̙̺̖̙̮͞ͅt̸̶̳̹̣̦̖͙̠̪̘̱y̷̨҉̮͙͇͎͎̹͟.̷̵̧̹̖͈̻̮͍̻͈ ̳̘̹̩͘̕͝w̗̝̭̘͚͚̰͕͟͞͡ͅh̷̷̙̮̰̜̪̲͍͔̱̯̘é̸̘̰̯͕̫͍̰̖̱̺͈̜̗͓͖͙͔͇́͠n̴̮̞͚̭͖̬̘̥͎͕̖͔͜ ̷̵҉͕͖̱̕͠ͅi̥̭͙̰̩̘͉̞̜̭̖̣̫̙̪͟ͅ ̵̢̧̼͈͕͉̱͉͔̣͙͟t̸̢̝̝̗̠̥͍͓̣͔ͅę̞̠̭̤̻̩̳̮̝̖̦̣̠̦à̶̶̧̪̺̠͕̦͈̝̠̠̞̥̟̰̝̘̤̣͟ŗ̧̼̜̮̮͎̣̠̼̟͕͚̟̟̹̹́͢ͅ ̞̩͉̗̩̖̠̗͖̩͙̤̮̙̱͉̼̫͞ͅo̶̧̖̝͖͖͕̤̳̕f̴̶̬̮̼̺̝̬̗̱͜f̵̸̻̘̗͕͚͈͈͖͓͜͠ ̵͎̜̦͎̳̟͚̟̖̲̙̲͈̗͔͈͔͢͜͢͝ͅm͏̜̥͕͉̝̲y̷̶̧̦͈̬̬͔̦͍̬̱̳͜ͅ ̢̰͎̹͙̮̳͕̝̟͖̻̦̦͖͎̼̱͡f̡̠̥̺̰͎͔̠̱͓̰̬̹̲̤̀͢l̸̶̺̖̬̹͖̬͚̀́e̶̶̱̳̱̞̱͇̭̬̗͢͞s̷̶̢͖̙̭͇͚͕͟͟h̸̼͓̪̪̗͙̥̳̻̩̥̪̻̭̕ ̨̧̡̗̱̠͍̯̲̯͘͜ͅị̘͕͔͇̤͖̤͔̩̭͓̻̝͔̣͔̬̕̕̕͢ͅ ̸̧̪̫͎̦͚ͅd̛҉̩͙̪̤̼̖́͡ọ̶̵̘̟̠̣͙̟̜͓̠͍͉̳͍̖͖͠ ̧͚̼̖̦͚͖̺̯̜͡n̺̝͎̜̺̞̯̝̹̟̩̪̣̗̝͈͇͙͞͝o̶̫̪͔̙̼̯͚̯̯͜͠͡ţ̴̞̝̣̖͎͡ ̵̴̭͈̟̯͇d̲͉̣͓͔̮̞͓̜͉̀̕͡i̶̡̢̭̩̝̫̠̖e̸͈̰̰͍͉̱̼͘͘͞ ̵̶̨̺͙̣͉͔̥̗̦͙̜͔̩̝͙̲ͅą̴̭̣̞͉̮̙̝̥̟̬͟ͅn҉͏̘͉̞̼̯̰͙͖̞͙͠ḑ̷̛̛̱͔̖͓͖̹͇̳̲̪ ̷̖̰̭̬͍̙̮͔̖̹̜i̦̖̟̪͇͠͞͝t̢̥̟̠̹̘͙̙͉͞ͅ ̸̺̲̱̣̦̩͍̬͢͠͝d̸̻̣͔̥̹̮͙̲̩̘̣̱͈̤͡o̵҉̶̙̬̣̗͈͇è̬̳̪̦̭͈̙̟́ͅş̛̟͕̤̭̖͙n̢͍͙͎̫͈̻̼̱̠̞͍͓̬͎̞͞͞'̴̸̬͎͙̞͈͇̩͇̳̳̹̘̤̪̳́͡ͅţ͙͈̰͖̱͔̱̟̼̮͓̫̙̖̘̗́͟͝͠ ̪̻̼͈̭̬̪̰̘͍͠͠g̴͈̰̻̯͈͇̥̣̻͍̱͙̀͢͞r̛̤̘̰͙̙̰͕̘͜͜o̢͈͓̻͢͞͝͞w̨̛͇̝̞͕͟͝ ̶̧͢҉̤͈͈̬̼̖̥̥͕̝͇̘b͘҉̨͓̻̜͙͔̖͉̠̖̩̰͜͞ą̶̭̼̯̻̲̼̞͉c̸̤̪̟̻̦͙͈͓̕͢͝͞ͅk̸̢҉̟̺̹̦̘̝̱͓͈͚̤̱̼̹͙̼̝̠.̛́͟͏̗̻̳̝̞̘͚̟̙̪̼͍̥̘̰ ̢̛̼̗̫̬̪̥̣̘̥̭̘͚̣͈̫ͅͅḭ̷̝̮͙̻͈͓͚͔̞̻͟͜͠ ̹̥̠͖̳̕j̫̺̘̹̮̯̬̦̮̳̝̲̀͟͢ú̥͉̥̹̥̘͍̪͘̕͠ͅs̜͢͜ͅͅt̵̡̙͇͓͓̱̺͔̭͈͇̯͓̪̩͖͈͠ͅ ̵҉̗̹͎̩͉̲̮͕̣͈̕͜e͝͏͏̣̰̰̫̰͖x͏̜̹̺͙̣͔̞̥̤̭͇̝̠͟i̷̵̮̳̙͇̭͓̝̙̺̘̫̫̤̲͍͟s̥̲̳̻̖̀̀͟ṱ͙̫̯̣̺͝ ͡͏̰̗͓͍̹͈͢i҉̕͡͏̢̰̗͓̺̩̩̹̲̯̹̟͇n҉͏̥͓̭̥͈̰͕͍̱̭͇͖͙̘̰̯̟ ̵̖̞̪̰̣̣̭̺̣̗̫̜̱͈͟a̵̷̢̤͚̱̳͕̰͇̣̩͓̲̼̟̗͇̖͉͢͜ ͏̡̻͍͍̰̜͚͝s̴͍̼̥͙̫̹̫̪̦̬͠t̷̶̻̻̫̲̩̳̝́a̸҉̯͙͇͕̹͔̩̜͉̤̟̪̙̤̀ͅt̞̭̬͡e̫͖̰͈̖̰̙̞̦̼͕̬͎̕͠͠ͅ ̸̴̛͟҉̩͉̫̬̻̱͉̝͈̬̱͕̹̯w̵̴̨̨̳̯̝͚͓̫͍̗̺̜̻͕͚ͅi̯͕̣͈̣͠t̕҉͇͇̝͖̟̩̰̙̠h̸̷̛̲̠̠̲̼̗̻̕o͏̵҉̱̲͍̘̖̗̲̯͚͈̭̹̝̕͘ừ̢̨̱͈͍͍̥̭̼͚̪͎̲̼͚ṱ̵̨̘̜̺̰̫̙̙̭̯͍͘͢͝ͅ ̖͈̪͈̹̺̩̘̼̳̺̥̩̠̦̩̱̀͡ͅt҉̸̢͕̤̩͎̳̟̣̲̹̯͍̗͕̩̱̪͕̩̝͘h̶̷̞̳͎̱̪͓̰̲̺̀̕͘ͅͅe҉̢͖̝̹͇͕͍̭̰͖͉̙͓̙̫͙̜̯͍͉̀ ͜͞͏̶̱͉̰̮͖͈̱̩̗f̛̣͙̦͙̥̳̮̺͙̘͚̭ͅl̵̵̹͚͕̙̙̪̳̪̙̤̩̞̪̫͈̀͘͠e̸̩͍̰̻̘̟̝̳̣̠̗̯͖̙̰̱̤̹͡͞ͅs͏̨҉̢̮̹͇̭͉̦ͅḩ̷̢͓̖̞͕̮̟̳̠̜̤̬̫̬̱̝ ͏̶̜̯̙̟̖̖͠a̶҉͙̞̖̭͍͇̜̻̙̳͓̘͓ͅn̡̰͈̥͍̯̪̜̩̬̣̺͖͞d̶̗̬̫̤̰̤̬̻̫̮͙͘͟͟ ̢̨̳̰͈̻̲̳̬͚̱́́͢ç̗̯̤̻̠͖̬̲̹̪̀́̕͠h̭̲̘̺̤̦̭͚̪͕̳̰͚̳̭̤̼̝͓͘̕͢u̸̶͖̖̙̙̲̞̝͈̬͖͖͉̭̦̻̠͚̫͟͞n̷̶̵̤͇̳̣̼̜͠͝k̡͚̜͍̞̱̺̙̼͉̞̪̲̻̝̥͎͙͙͙͢͠͠͡s̷̶̴̙͎̰̞̥̲̜̳̪̻̀͢ ͡҉̣͍̖̙͍̙̫o̵͏̙̻͍͠f͕̺͓̩̝̠̦̠͙̖̤͍͉̮͉̙͔͜͞ ̴͓̗̹͓̟͖̳̝͚͕͘ͅͅm̷̵̹̻̙̞̬̻̖̜̭̀̕é҉͕̲̙̯̤͍͖̼̩̯̳̖̣̻̩̘̮͘͠a̸̢̛̼̹̙̥̱̝͇͔͖̘͎̦̞̳̯̱͘͢t̨͇̙̪͇̻̪̣̱̣̫͎̻̘͟͝ͅͅ ͏҉͔̺̙̮̻̦̫́͡͡i̛҉̵̛͏̪̤̳͙͕̫̗̻̥̗͕͎̰͙̘̙̰̗ ҉҉̴̸̼̘̫͙͔̠͇͔͘t̨̀͢҉͔͇͇̹̞͇͈̯̙̗͙͎̣̪̕ͅͅo͈̙̻͍̞̟̮̩̼͎̦̰̦̘̼͘͞͞r̴̵̭̰̯͚̰͈̀́̕e̶̡̯͍̞̮̬̙̼̼͚̣̱͢ͅͅ ̵̦̯̹̱͎̘͖̱̺̖̳̳͖͓͎͔͟͡a̸̡͍͉̬̞͍̻͓̣͟͢ͅw̟͔̭͇̬͈͞͠a̶̢҉̴̛̱͇̻̘̬̖̱͖͖̮̠͚y̸̡̛̱̟̪̹̫̯͉̟͚͡ ̴̡̨͉̭͇́o̱̭͎̜̜͕͘͡n҉̸͡҉͙͖̟̦̬̪̬͖̼̖̞͙̣̪͙ ̸̷̷̨͇͎͕͞m̧̢͏̷̫̻̫͇ý̢̛̭̺͙͖͓̣̕͠ͅ ̧̢̝̞̬͉̪̜̟͍̟̱̰͙̺͍͜b̻̭̗̯̱̣̘̖̪̪͚͕̦͈̀ǫ̛̤̗̗̩̻̦̲̜̗̠͙̥̠̣̼̩̞͠ǹ̷̗͍͚̥͓̱̪̗̤̘̲̭͚̞̣͚͇͝ͅè̵̦̟̼̩͕̗̭̥͉̪͔s̨̢̨̩̰̪̰͇̞̩̬̲͔͟.̸̷̡̰̳̬̗̤̠̤̥̪͖͠  
́́҉͔̻͈̪̼̻͈͖̘͕̖̲̩͖̼͕  
̝̺̮͔͎̫̬͜͝  
̵̨̭̘̝̩̞͇͖̗̩͍̳͎̼̘̙̦  
̨̛͈͚̬̱͕͚͎̖̗̣̭̙̜͈͙̹̦̘̲͝͝-͏̧̬͙͖̮͍͖̫̞̙͈̬̰̥̠̕͜͞ͅ  
͚͔͕͉̭̳̠͈͉̗̮́͘͢͞  



	4. krimdology

Arthur and them are them are them are at Arthur's house when him hears the news.

"Your mother and I are leaving town indefinitely," Mr. Read says.

"How long will you be gone, dad?"

"Indefinitely, Arthur. I just said that. Pay attention, boy."

"I am but," Arthur shifts, looking around uncomfortably. "What's indefinitely mean?"

"Jeezum-crow, Arthur, figure it out. You won't be four forever."

"I'm eight, dad," Arthur says, burying the hurt his dad getting his age wrong makes him feel on the inside, under and around all those missed baseball games and the times he wishfully referred to Arthur as Dexter in reference to what his parents called "the good son that didn't make it out of the womb." Arthur doesn't like that story, and he didn't like it when his dad got his name or his age wrong, or missed his baseball games. "DW is four."

"Cheese and crackers, Arthur, you're eight and you still don't know indefinitely? Grow up."

And with that, Mr. Read finishes adjusting his tie and picks up his suitcase and heads for the door. 

* * *

**Cirql ch. 4**  
Arthur and them babysitters 

* * *

"Can we order pizza tonight?"

"You'll have to ask the babysitter. I gave him money, it's up to him if he wants to spend it on you. Jane! Are you ready?"

"In a moment dear!" Mrs. Read's muffled call comes from another room.

"Can Buster come over?"

"I don't really care, Arthur, ask the babysitter when he gets here."

"What about Katie?"

"What about her? Clean up her crap, feed her when she starts wailing and try not to annoy the babysitter. Again, we paid him, but not enough to clean up feces. We're capitalists, not commies." Mr. Read sighs happily and says to himself "I love being a capitalist, the free trade market is amazing."

"But dad, why can't we have grandma Thora look after us?" says Arthur. "Or Catherine or Ms. MacGrady?"

"Catherine is two busy," says Mrs. Read, entering the room with Kate and DW in tow. She bends down to hand Kate to Arthur and kiss him on the cheek. "Same with them other to. Now you call us if things go wrong or if a babysitter does the wrong thing or the other wrong thing. Tomorrow during school hours, preferably."

"Who will be our babysitter today after school?" Arthur asks his mother and father.

"His name is Gary Anderson," Mr. Read says, opening the door and sighing in disgust and annoyance. "He's an artist. You like art, right?"

"I guess, but-"

"Then quit badgering me, Arthur. You're an aardvark. Not a badger. Act like an aardvark and stop badgering your father, okay?"

"Yes sir," Arthur says dejectedly. Suddenly, Pal, the family dog runs through his fathers legs and off into the street. "Pal!"

Arthur steps to go after him but his father grabs him by the collar and stops him dead in his tracks.

"Look what you did, Arthur. You badgered your father and now the dog has escaped the prison you keep him in."

"We have to go after him, dad!"

"There's no time for that, Arthur. Your mother and I are going to Bali and you are going to school. Think of this as your punishment. Because you badgered your father instead of acting like a proper aardvark, you now get to worry about whether or not your dog will get lost, run over or stolen during the eight hours in which you carelessly neglect his predicament for your academic studies."

"Neener!" DW says, sticking out her tongue and pushing up the tip of her nose with her index finger and making a pignose at Arthur.

"Shut up, DW, he's your dog too!"

"Hey," Mrs. Read says sternly. "Don't you dare talk to your sister like that. Now, I'm gonna need you to take care of Kate at school because your father and I will be leaving right away and the babysitter won't be here until after school. Plus, we paid him and all, but we didn't pay him nearly enough to clean up feces."

"I already went over all that, honey," Mr. Read says to his wife, Mrs. Read.

"Oh, David," she moans, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing Mr. Read with her tongue. Muffled words escape her further. "I love capitalism."

"The free trade market is amazing," Mr. Read says kissing her back with his tongue and grinding his crotch against her crotch with her butt against the car. He's still holding Arthur by the collar, who is holding Baby Kate while watching Pal disappear down the street with sadness in his eyes. The sadness of an ardvark boy who may have lost his dog forever.

But that's not all that happens in this here story. Read on to the next scene to find out what happens. 

* * *

"That baby stinks, Arthur," Buster says, plugging his nose. "Pee-yew."

"Hey! She's a baby. She can't help it if she smells funny."

"I didn't say she smells funny, Arthur," Buster says as seriously as he's ever said anything in his whole life. "There is nothing about that smell that puts a chuckle in my belly or a giggle in my heart. That baby smells bad, Arthur. That smell is something I want to be away from. If that film were a movie I would give it zero stars on the internet, and wish I could give it less. It stinks, Arthur. It's bad. I don't like it."

"Will you change that thing's diaper already?" Francine also huffs. "SOME of us are trying to eat lunch."

"My parents didn't give me any diapers or formula to take to school with me! I can't help if she stinks!" Arthur starts to protest.

As if on cue, the baby begins to cry.

"What a crybaby!" Binky interjects through a mouthful of sandwich. "You gonna cry all day, crybaby?"

"Binky, she's a baby," Arthur says, narrowing his eyes with his mouth open.

"Yeah," Binky says, feeling clever. "A CRYbaby." He smiles like he got the final question right with confidence on WHO WANTS A BAJILLION NICKELS?! "Why don't you and that crybaby go change your diapers?"

"I told you, my parents left the diapers at home. I can't change her until I get home."

"I wasn't talking about her," Binky says, laughing obnoxiously. "I was talking about YOU! Go change your diapers, crybaby! And hers too while you're at it! HUHUHUHUH! AHUHUHUHUH!"

Everybody laughs at Arthur, and he is really sad right now, because he is a crybaby.  
In the bathroom he tries to clean out Kate's diaper with water, soap and toilet paper and Mr. Ratburn gives him a detention for making a mess in the bathroom.

Arthur doesn't like detention. Right now, he doesn't like Mr. Ratburn or Baby Kate or his parents. He doesn't even like Buster, Francine, Muffy or even Binky. The only thing he likes is his dog, Pal, which he is very worried about getting lost, stolen or runned over, like his dad said might happen while he was neglecting his poor dog's predicament for his academic studies.

Arthur wants to throw Baby Kate at Mr. Ratburn for giving him a detention but he doesn't want another detention but he gets another detention anyway when Baby Kate won't stop crying in Mr. Ratburn's class.

"Stupid Baby Kate," Arthur says under his breath. "You got me multiple detentions! It's all your fault!"

He wants to hit her but he knows she'll just cry more so he doesn't hit her. Instead he takes her home on the bus to change her diaper and meet the babysitter and them.

Keep reading on this here story to find out what happens. 

* * *

When Arthur and them are them are get home, Gary Anderson are there in the house to greet them.  
After a bit, Arthur will have a problem with this Gary Anderson man babysitter, but not yet in this here story.

"Hi you two," says Gary Anderson. "Your parents showed me pictures of you two to make sure that the right kids were in the right house when you arrived!"

"Hi sir," Arthur says respectfully to him and them and by him and them I mean the babysitter Gary Anderson. "I heard you were an artist."

"I am!" says Gary Anderson, the babysitter. "I could paint an art of you for you. You children would make wonderful models." Gary Anderson sounds submissive to him. Arthur's daddy always taught him a man should be on constant offense, which is why he was disappointed in Arthur. Arthur wonders why his dad would pick a similarly submissive man to Arthur as a babysitter.

"Thanks, I think," Arthur says, looking down at the baby in his arms. "I have to change Kate and then I have homework to do."

"Oh, we can do that anytime! Please, let me take care of Kate and you can get started on your homework."

"My dad says he paid you but he didn't pay you enough to degrade yourself by cleaning feces. He also said he loved capitalism and the free trade market and tongue kissed mom while my dog ran away. Can I go look for Pal?"

Gary Anderson has a horrified look on his face. "Excuse me, what?"

"Pal is my dog. I don't want him to get lost or hit by a car or stolen like my daddy said he might because that's my punishment. Can I go look for him?"

"Oh my god," Gary Anderson, the babysitter says with his jaw dropped. "H-how about this? You go call him from the yard while I change and feed little Katie here and when I'm done we'll go looking for him together, okay? We'll ask around the neighborhood and everything. Is that okay?"

He seems submissive to Arthur and by him I mean Gary Anderson the babysitter. Arthur isn't used to being asked if something is okay. He doesn't really like it because it's different.

"I guess," he says.

He goes out to the yard and he yells for Pal and Pal doesn't come. Inside, Gary Anderson and them change the baby and feed the baby formula because Gary Anderson is a man and doesn't have a Boobie like Mrs. Read much less two for one when one runs out of milk. Like Mrs. Read, Arthur's momma.

When Gary Anderson, the babysitter finishes changing and feeding Baby Kate with a formula because he doesn't have any boobie like Mrs. Read does he comes out to ask Arthur if he has a picture of Pal. Arthur is surprised Gary Anderson, the babysitter remembers Pal's name because his parents don't ever remember Pal's name. They call him "Buddy" or "Chum," though his dad has admitted he calls Pal "Chum" because he feels the dog would be best suited fed to sharks. Arthur doesn't like that, and he doesn't like when his parents call the dog "Buddy" either.

He likes that Gary Anderson, the babysitter remember's Pal's name, but he's not sure if he trusts it. Good things in Arthur's life often turn out to be bad things.

He fetches a picture of Pal and they go around the neighborhood calling for Pal and knocking door to door to ask the neighbors if they seened him today. The neighbors that answered there doors said no. They hadn't seen Pal. But Gary Anderson, the babysitter, he gave them a card and told them to contact to Arthur and them if they did and they agreed. One man said he seened the dog but the dog wasn't there in his yard where he seened him anymore. And that was okay because they gave him a card and told him to call Arthur and them if they seened him again. Even though they didn't find Pal it made Arthur more comfortable knowing the neighborhood was looking for him too.  
When they got home Arthur asked mister Gary Anderson, the submissive babysitter if they could get a pizza and he said of course they could.

"Can we get a pizza tonight Mister Gary Anderson, the babysitter?" Arthur says.

"Of course we can!" Gary Anderson, the babysitter says. "And you can call me Gary! You don't have to go through all those formalities!"

Gary Anderson, the babysitter sounds submissive. Arthur isn't sure how he feels about that.

When Gary Anderson orders the pizza from the Pizza Man Pizza pizza place, he uses the phone to call them.

"Hello!" Gary Anderson, the babysitter says to the pizza man. "I am ordering you a pizza from you to me today!"

"What kind of pizza would you like from the Pizza Man Pizza today sir?" the Pizza Man Pizza pizza man says into the phone at Gary Anderson.

"Mushroom pineapple and broccoli delivered to the Read house please! And look out for Pal!"

"Pal?" the Pizza Man pizza man asks.

"Yes the Read dog is lost and if you see him on the way please do pick him up and we will give you a reward bonus tip. Thank you."

"Okay sir thank you for shopping at Pizza Man Pizza, we wish you a pizzatastic day."

The Pizza Man Pizza pizza man did not find Pal on the way over but he did bring a mushroom pineapple and broccoli pizza and Arthur liked that. Gary Anderson said that in the morning he would make fliers and put them all over the neighborhood while Arthur was at school, and that he would take care of Baby Kate so that she didn't get him in trouble or anymore detentions. Arthur thought the way he said that sounded submissive.

Arthur asks the babysitter Gary Anderson if he can be excused from the table to work on his homework. "Gary Anderson, may I please be excused from the table to work on my homework?" Arthur says.

"Of course! And please, call me Gary. Do you need any help with your homework?"

"I think I got it Gary Anderson," Arthur says. "Thank you."

"Such a polite boy," Gary Anderson chuckles to himself as he leaves the room. DW eyeballs him warily.

Read on in this here story to find out why her do that in fact. There's more to this here story to be told of course. 

* * *

Arthur Read is pondering the intrinsics of mathmaticals when his door creaks open behind him.  
His hypnosis is disrupted by the sound and he turns his attention to the door.

"DW!" he says, annoyed. "Didn't you read the sign?! You're not allowed in my room!"

And it's true, canonically Arthur has a sign on his door warding off DW, and canonically it does not stop her because she cannot read, despite it being her namesake.

"We need to talk about Gary Anderson, the babysitter," DW says, her voice as grave as her face and her face as grave as a place where you might bury a dead body.

"We have to talk about Gary Anderson, the babysitter," DW says just as gravely as before.

"No, WE don't. YOU have to get out of my room because I'm doing my homework. I'll tell dad. And he'll tell the babysitter!"

"I don't think the babysitter is going to do anything to me, Arthur," DW says. "It's what he's going to do to you that I'm worried about."

"Shut up, DW. You're a girl and girls are stupid."

"That's why he doesn't want anything to do with me. Tell me, Arthur, you two have been very chummy, haven't you? Going out. Looking for Pal. I think I heard something about him making and putting up fliers for you. Isn't that soooo nice of him?"

Her expression, unchanging. Her monotone of voice, consistent.

"What are you getting at?"

"He's gay, Arthur." DW is more serious about this than she's ever been about anything in her whole life.

"So what?!" Arthur is getting frustrated. Not sexual.

"He is gay and the more time you spend with him makes you gay," DW says, her eyes unblinking, "but that's not all.."

"So what if he is gay?" Arthur spits from his mouth like saliva instead of words. "That doesn't make me gay!" Does it?"

"Yes it does, but that's not all." DW's voice echoes as if many of her speak at once. "He is going to rape you and it is going to hurt a lot. He will do anything to see your Penis and he will also put stuff in your butt too."

"Stuff is supposed to come out of my butt DW, not go in," Arthur says in disbelief.

"I know," she says. "What gay people do is unnatural and it really hurts a lot."

"I don't believe you," Arthur says. "Gary Anderson wouldn't do that to me or anybody. He is a nice and submissive babysitter."

"Why do you think he is so submissive?" DW asks, unchanging in her demeanor. "He'll do anything to see your Penis."

"Stop saying that, DW! Nobody is ever seeing my penis! Not ever, you hear!"

"I bet he'll come to check on you... right... now.." And DW's voice trails off as if on cue as his footsteps approach his barely ajar door. Gary Anderson, the babysitter, knocks and without invading his privacy he calls in through the cracks.

"Hey, Arthur. Everything all right in there?"

"Y-yes Mr. Anderson," Arthur chokes on his own saliva and words. "Everything is fine. Just doing my homework. DW is in here." He looks at DW who shakes her head gravely as a dead body place. "I mean um I'm in here. Just doing my homework."

"Haha," Gary Anderson, the babysitter says, sounding a bit confused. "I just wanted to check on you kids before I made a phone call and make sure there's not anything you needed."

"I'm fine Mr. Anderson." Arthur calls out nervously. "Uh. Really."

"Are you sure? You don't need help with your homework or anything, do you?"

"N-no sir."

"Ah. Okay, well. You finish up and make sure you kids get ready for bed on time, okay? I'll watch after Baby Kate downstairs."

"Okay Mr. Anderson. Th-thank you."

"Please. Call me Gary," Gary Anderson, the babysitter says submissively. "Let me know if you need anything."

His footsteps fade off down the stairs as Arthur and DW stare at each other. Her eyes fixated, consistent. His eyes quivering, submissive, terrified.

After a few moments she nods her head towards the door, shushing him with a finger over her mouth.  
They step out quietly into the upstairs hallway and lean against the bannister. They can hear him talking.

"Yeah... I can't believe these parents asked me to babysit their children on thanksgiving... yeah, it's tomorrow. After I post the fliers for their missing dog I'm going to go all out. I'm gonna cook them a real thanksgiving dinner. ... Uh huh. ... Of course you can help! The more the merrier. ... Okay, sweetie, get some rest. I love you, too, Thomas. Buh-bye."

DW motions with her head with her finger over her lips back to Arthur's door and they quietly sneak back into his room and close the door behind them.

"Well?" DW says.

"Well what," Arthur aggressively sighs as he sits back down at his desk. "That doesn't prove anything."

"He said I love you to someone named Thomas. That's a boy's name. And do I need to remind you of how papa values thanksgiving?"

She did not. Arthur recites the words without even thinking about them. Even with his eyes closed. "Only queers suckle from the teat of societal holidays."

"So you know what needs to be done," DW says, crossing her arms.

Arthur doesn't. He looks at DW for some kind of answer in her blank and lifeless face while not responding to her verbally.

DW sighs. She has a lot of work ahead of her.  
Keep reading to find out what happens next in this here story, in fact, of course, if you please. 

* * *

It's not so easy to look god in the face and tell him you are better than him of course. Not for keeps.

When Arthur screams for the babysitter, Gary Anderson, he has no idea what he's getting himself into.  
The rushed footsteps up the stairs pounding with Arthur's heart as he keeps screaming.

DW knowed he wouldn't scream good enough unless she stabbed him with the nailfile so she did.  
And now he's screaming like he means it and the babysitter, Gary Anderson, is scared.

Arthur is screaming and bleeding everywhere onto his soaking sweater in his room as Gary Anderson, the babysitter runs up the stairs and into the kids' "snare trap".  
The trap doesn't look like it work like DW had told him she intended it to work to him.

When Arthur leaned out on the bannister to look at his contributed handiwork.  
The "snare trap" seems to have launched the babysitter, Gary Anderson, into the sky and tossed him from the top of the second story down viciously onto the hardwood floor below.

His spine seems to have awkwardly broken because his upper half is twitching and gurgling and his lower half is comepletely still and lifeless as it sticks out from his upper half at an unnatural angle.

Arthur has balled up his sweater against his stomach, soaking the fabrick into a dark brown knot.

"He stabbed you," DW says.

And Arthur believes her as he steps one foot at a time along the bannister and down the stairs.  
Twitching and frothing, the babysitter, Gary Anderson seemed submissive to him.  
With each step down the stairs, Arthur became closer and closer to facing the physical manifestation of mortality, and the worst part to him is that he's taken part of it.

He sees bones unnaturally move in Gary Anderson's neck as he can only guess the begging for his life that he is committed to.

"You never should have tried to put something in my butt," Arthur says, his eyes filling with tears.

The bewildered squelching is something DW had warned him against.  
He looked hurt, just as she told him he would be when his shaky fingers reached out to him as they did now.

Arthur didn't know there would be this much blood, though, he hadn't imagined how sickening it could actually be to look a dying man in the eye.

Trying to protest what he didn't even understand as false accusations.

Emotionally rended and physically broken, what's left of Gary Anderson, the babysitter is twitching and convulsing as it coughs up protests ignored in an increasing pool of blood.

Arthur steps in, unwitting to his tracks in the blood.  
The god screams from atop the stairs, tentacles bursting from its shadow.

Suppressing the gurgling as the pleading eyes roll into the back of Gary Anderson, the babysitter's head, the foot throttles downward on his neck.

Arthur stomps maybe a few times on the dead babysitter, Gary Anderson's neck. He seems submissive.

Arthur begins to cry for reasons he doesn't fully understand.  
He knows the blood on his hands isn't his of course. The blood he smears across his face when he cries into his hands in fact.

When he looks up to see with his eyes covered in the blood of a dead animal, he sees DW tossing him the portable phone and his hands smear blood all over the back of the receiver and the number pad as he dials the numbers 9-1-1.

It's hard enough to explain the babysitter, Gary Anderson was dead due to an unforseen accident. When the voice told him to alert his parents, for the first time, the gravity of how badly he had messed up dawns upon him. 

* * *

"What is this?! Who are you, calling me at this hour?!"

"Hey dad it's me Arthur." Arthur Read says.

"Disappointing. What do you want? Out with it son." His father demands, demandingly.

"The babysitter died like grandpa," Only that's not exactly what Arthur meant so Arthur revised.  
"Arthur died, much like our grandfather, but unlike our grandfather he fell down the stairs and didn't eat arsenic because someone given him three nickels to eat what he perceived to be an old dirty sandwich."

"Arthur. You're not dead. None of what you just said makes any sense." Says Mr. Read.

"Gary Anderson," Arthur says crying. " . "

'Goddamnit, son," Mr. Read says. "Do you know how hard it is to hire help from Bali?" 

* * *

Arthur wanted to give Baby Kate something real to cry about when she cried on the way home from school. He wanted her to suffer like he would suffer through all those extra detentions she gotted him through the two days he had to take her to school. Even with diapers she kept crying and getting him in trouble and he wanted her to be the one to be in trouble. He wanted her to be the one to suffer, not him. She was a stupid crybaby girl who couldn't even change her own stupid diapers and he hated her for it. He hated everything about her stupid face and her stupid scream. He wanted to hurt her. Instead he carried her close to his chest as he walked home diligently looking for Pal.

When he finally gets home he smells and finds that DW had made a crap on the couch. Something she knows better than to do.

Arthur yells at her. He is mean because he is angry. He is angry so he is mean and he yells at her and says things mom and dad told him not to say.

It is while he is screaming these things the new babysitter kicks down the door.

"YOU ARE MAKING TOO MUCH NOISE AND BEING TOO MEAN TO YOUR SISTER." the babysitter says without any real emotions. "I AM GOING TO HAVE TO SPANK YOU AND PUT YOU IN A TIME OUT."

The new babysitter wheels over on his heels over and backhands Arthur in the nose and then punches him there again.

Arthur's nose bursts like like a grape under a slab of Portland cement.  
The babysitter throttles him and throws him into the wall before sliding evenly on both heels into the kitchen and finding two pans to bang together.

The doorbell rings. DW stares as our Arthur's body quivers and he struggles to get up and get it.  
He looks at his sister pleadingly as he does.

"DW. It could be Pal."

She does nothing. Simply stares as he struggles to his knees and makes his way awkwardly towards the front door.

As he opens it, it slams back into his face jettisoning a line of blood from his face through an arc in thin air, and back down to the floor as gravity takes them.

DW starts laughing as more and more babysitters pour in through the front door and Arthur bleeds.  
He gets up, a matted dark brown A spilling across his chest. He holds his nose to stop the bleeding.

A man holding a dead dog by the fur enteres the house through the ajar front door.  
The carrion dog sways stiffly in the rhythm of his stuttering grip.

"Hey, is this the Arthur house?!" he says waving the dead dog around like cotton candy tickets at a defunct fair. As clueless as from point A to point B he starts to hammer the grip of the shovel he killed it with on the tile floor. "AR-THUR-READ! I-KILLED-YOUR-DOG!-WITH. A. SHOVEL. AND NOW. I'M YOUR. BABYSITTER! AAAAAAAAAAA."

He screamed like he meant it before he whipped the animal carcass into the godless shifting creature that is DW,

As DW shifts and morphs with every arriving cultist I mean babysitter into something beyond our understanding.

When he runs screaming to the nearest babysitter, it tells him to go to its room.

"Go to your room, Arthur," it says, eyes black and unfriendly. "I want to see you burning in purgatory."

Arthur screams and tries to run to the phone. They catch him and ominously crowd aroound him. Staring into his very judgement.

"You are to be punished and ignored," the many babysitters say as more march through the front door. ALL SHAPES all sizes they all seem to adapt and quiver to the social norms, the social norms quivering along with them.

"But!" Arthur protests as they almost strangle him with his own sweater. "But I need to take care of my SISTER!"

He screams.

"No butts young lady now march to your room and let the grownups froth at the mouth while twitching on the floor."

The babysitters do that thing that was said earlier and they lazily try to indicate as such by saying "that thing that was said earlier" even though this explanation is now far longer than what was just repeating what was just described.

Arthur gets up and climbs over their increasing twitching bodies to a phone and crawls his way up the stairs.  
Scared. Heart pounding. Head throbbing.

The door closes behind him and he punches in the numbers with his thumb.  
He's so tired.

"Dad please help," he says to the ringing phone.

The click of someone answering. Arthur is crying.  
"I swear to god, Arthur, if you don't stop badgering me with these babysitter complains I'm going to lock you in your room and fill it with scorpions! Nobody likes their babysitter or babysitters, you understand?! Now. What are you."

Arthur's sobbing into the phone could not be mistaken for anything else. His lip quivers. He doesn't want to be locked in his room again, let alone with scorpions this time.  
"I'm an aardvark," he says.

"No more badgering?"

The banging on his wall getting consistently louder.  
His door hinges straining at capacity.

Arthur is clearly making sounds of distress. "No more badgering."

"Good. Now you keep those babysitters alive and we'll talk about your punishment when I see you."

"Dad?" Arthur says with hope in his heart.

Another disgusted sigh. "What?"

"Happy thanksgiving.."

"Whatever," Mr. Read says probably rolling his eyes. "They don't even have thanksgiving in Bali, Arthur. Grow up. What are you, twelve?"

"I'm eight, dad," Arthur says but Mr. Read already hung up on him and them.

The top third of Arthur's door slams and splinters inward as a babysitter hits it with a hammer.

"I AM YOUR DAD NOW" it says unapologetically. "I CONTROL THE SCORPIONS. IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO SUFFER.

"I WANT TO SEE YOU PEE LIKE A GIRL," says many voices, closing in. "GO ON, PEE SITTING DOWN."

Arthur backs his way into the corner of the room and sits on a basketball as the door is reduced to splinters and the adults come pouring through the room.

Arthur pisses his pants on the basketball which seemms to appease them. But what they don't understand is that he's not afraid of him. He's afraid of the monster his sister is becoming.

Arthur Read is afraid of the monster his sister has always been. 

* * *

cornwallace/Swiper. No swiping - 2018


	5. intermission

i am cognizant of the sounds of what i perceive to be the ocean before anything else.  
when my eyes flutter open, everything is blurry.  
a chill runs down my spine as i push myself from my stomach to my knees and shake off the sand and blink the world into focus.

the sky is grey, a never ending ocean of storm clouds cluttered together.  
angry warnings floating across the sky faster than they should be.

i am surrounded by the corpses that inhabit this canonical universe.  
there's no mistaking it. they're all dead. starting with arthur and everyone he knows as if they arbitrarily washed up on this beach.

and when i look up, i see a small dot. a figure afloat. i know she's there.

my fists tighten.  
you coward.  
come down here and face me without godhood. 

* * *

**Cirql chapter 5** ;  
 _intermission_

* * *

my palm empties a clump of sand down onto the beach beneath me.  
brush it off on my naked chest.

the tide is coming in.  
water brushing up against my knees. i stand.  
written in the sand at my feet is the entirety of uncertainty.

you're not wrong.  
wrong isn't becoming of you.  
you defy the very concepts of right and wrong because you are you and what you are simply is.

there's not a thin shred of myself that doesn't recognize your influence and you would have me this way.  
at least for now.  
as far as i can see it, anyway.  
you feel my fists tightening as your own, do you not?  
those two eyes that hide millions.  
a pretentious acquisition of knowledge as my understanding of you in regards to myself ascends reason. any existential institution that would allow such madness simultaneous to such a horrific understanding is beyond explainable comprehension.

the rhetoric in my head is simultaneous and constant.

behind me the tops of houses on stilts peek over arbitrarily grassy mounds of earth guarded by warnings to watch out for rattlesnakes in the brush on signs.  
this beach is from my memory, from the world i've experienced. this isn't a coincidence; i woke up here.

a wind drifts along midsummer and into midwinter and my body falters.  
sending chills up my spine to bring me to my knees once again amongst the cadavers.

a cold wind from my soul to your very entity attempts much but accomplishes very little.

even though one true look at you would destroy me, as it has and taken my memories with it, i still attempt to make sense of the floating cross shaped form, explicit among the eye of the storm but lost in detail.

a true magnificence would belong to the truth to you, would it not?  
a laugh, in such a weak attempt to provoke you.

something else.  
not of my tongue.

you've gotten bored, have you not?

this is precious.  
the devil god grows bored of consuming our suffering and still it waits for my devotion.  
a scoff in the face infinite madness and horror like a flea on a bull's ass. deliberate and unnoticed.

eyes drawn, no, fixated on you once again.  
some obscure figure in the distance, but i know it's you.  
your entire nature is madness. none of it makes any sense.  
and still you pull me forward into the water. the waves licking and lapping at my feet.  
quite an original endeavor, i scoff to myself once more as the waves begin to crash against my knees.

with each labored step dragging into and against the currents of the angry ocean, i become more emotionally at peace.  
this is a weapon against me. this will make the pain i experience shortly more vivid.  
i've sung this song and danced this dance. the horizon obscured by pixels and static.  
i can taste the lust for my systematic defilement on what limited understanding i have of your anatomy. whatever scientific or medical aspect of you that goes nuts for the wide range of human emotion.

harsh waves try to push me away from you, and still i persist.

and still my body drags me forward.  
eyelids want to flutter closed but again the world glitches out around me.

i see the things i want and the things i want to be and i see my destination.  
i see when god cut the failure from angels and made mankind.  
i see the final words on the lips and tongues of those that have and will always be condemned.  
i see humanity inevitably destroy itself as it's one to do.  
i see a rock concert where the band plays the same song over and over again and the crowd eats it up. i ask the guy next to me what band this is. he says something that is lost in the ether. i scream at him, what band is playing this song. He says something like haycee desee. i nod like i understand, and the band acts like it's starting to play a new song but it plays the same one it's been playing for the past hour.

my skin begins to leak out every weakness i have and i begin to weep.  
there's not much else you can do at the final stage of judgment.

the universe is a funnel spitting hot flames through both ends. i don't know how anybody survives. 

* * *

cornwallace - 2019


	6. Space

...darkness..?

I'm already sitting up. Instinctively I reach for my lamp.  
Off by a few centimeters but it's there.  
And light splashes into the room. I haven't caught my breath.

Slowly, it comes back to me.  
And still, I do not trust it.

Tearing the covers off myself, I hop out of bed with a structure and security in physics I've felt lost to for ages. Run through my door and into the hallway and in less bounds than I thought I was capable.  
Knocking and calling out to them while opening the door. And when light fills the room and the figures struggle to sit up in bed, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" 

* * *

Did you ever have existential crisis as a kid?  
"What?"  
Existential crisis. As a kid.  
"Oh, sure. I was a solipsist when I was like twelve."  
Really.  
"Yeah, I mean. All I had was my perspective. I questioned whether or not that's all there was."

I lay across his legs and look up at his face.  
And he looks down at mine, a grin autonomously stretching his face.  
He goes back to reading his book before I interrupt him again.

What was the deciding factor?  
"Hrm?"  
That you didn't make it all up. I gesture to the world around us.  
His mouth slides from a smirk to a smile. "Who's to say I didn't?"  
Me!  
"Ah, you? But a figment of my imagination. Self-aggrandizing huckstery."  
Hee-haw. Did you ever hear from your sister?  
A harsh pause. "I don't have a sister, Nadine."  
D'oh. I'm sorry, that girl you grew up with that has all your childhood pictures and shit.  
A laugh. "Muffy. No, I never heard back from her. If anyone has all that stuff, it's her, though. She worked yearbook every year and copied negatives like crazy."  
I'm gonna make some tea, do you want some?  
"Yeah but," he says tearing his attention away from his book again - "could you check on Buddy?"  
I suppose I could make sure he's inside.  
"Thank youuu," he sings, not looking up again.

Make my way down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen where I fetch a kettle from a cabinet and fill it with water.  
Setting on the gas stove and turning the knob, I turn to the kitchen door leading out back. The screen has a dog door for Arthur's white Pomeranian. I call his name a couple of times to no response and step out the screen door.

Buddy!, I call.  
Lightning strikes the night sky casting peculiar shadows across a temporary blindness.  
But even curiouser, was a small but ravenous growling and tearing. Just barely within the fence's perimeter lights I can make out a vibrating ball of fluff.  
Buddy, I assert. Come here now.  
Usually he listens to me..  
Curse quietly to myself stepping out into the still fresh mud. Curious as to what Buddy is still even doing out here in this weather.  
Goddamnit, you little dog, get your ass over here.

I stop just short of him because apparently my voice has lost its charm tonight. Pick him up by the belly from behind and he tries to drag something with him.  
Something big.  
Lean in to inspect it by picking it up with my free hand and immediately recoil at a hand full of slime. Looks like a bone..  
I toss it without thinking too hard about it, and on my way back inside with dog yelping and awkwardly writhing in tow I fumble to open up the screen door with my free elbow rather than my free arm and bump the main door shut with my hip.  
I set the dog down and he goes completely quiet.

Buddy..?  
He doesn't even look at me. He sniffs around his environment almost as if for the first time until he finds his watering dish and the flaps of tongue against water permeate the atmosphere, accompanied shortly by a whistling tea kettle.

Let the tea steep for a moment before calling him down.  
Arthur, honey, I say in a mock singsong voice. Your teaaa is ready.  
I'm just blowing and sipping on mine when he joins me.  
We sit in a collective comfortable silence for a moment before he breaks it like a glass penguin against a wall of solid ice.

"I guess I struggled to understand ideologies complex enough to have had to be borne outside my consciousness."  
Excuse me?  
He struggles to swallow a hot sip of tea while waving a hand frantically in front of his closed mouth. He's such a weenie. "Tholipthithm."  
I catch on. Oh, right. No vivid memories of doing so?  
He shrugs.  
Man, I used to have this dream. This dream where everything was grim and existence was a beast, ravenously tearing apart a timeline at all costs.  
"How old were you?"  
God, I must have been young. Maybe four?  
"Jesus. How does a four year old dream that shit up?"  
I.. don't know. I don't even remember the specifics. Just a horror beyond my understanding.

He's staring at me, unblinking, hanging on my every word.  
I feel a bit guilty telling him like this, even though I shouldn't.

It wasn't traumatic, or anything, I say, trying to put him at ease. And I stopped having the dreams.

The dog starts yapping at him, interrupting him from saying something and again I feel foolish for oversharing.  
Even though I know he wouldn't think that. He's my best friend..

It's hard work, being nicer to yourself.  
But with us helping each other, we're doing it little by little, I think.

The little bastard is licking Arthur's hands and it occurs to me to make mention.

You're gonna wanna wash your hands when you put that little bugger down, he got into something rank out in the yard.  
"Rank?"  
I nod and take a sip. He was all cods and waddles over some big animal bone in the yard.  
"Animal bone in the yard? What's an animal bone doing in the yard?"  
Shrug. I dunno but your dog was all over it.  
"How big was it?"  
Big.  
"How big?"  
I dunno, it was big and covered in slime. I tossed it.  
"Like a turkey leg big?"  
Shrug again. I dunno, bigger. I grabbed it by the end and it was the size of an apple. It was covered in gross slime so I chucked it.  
"Honey, we live out in the middle of nowhere. We don't even have neighboring farms..."

I notice the serious look in his eye, the look of doubt and fear and I try to wave it off.

It was dark, it was probably a stick or something. Still, you're gonna wanna wash your hands.

He gets up and flips the lightswitch next to the door, turning the perimeter lights back on before looking through the window over the sink.

"Nadine..." he says quietly, his voice trembling. "There's someone in our front yard." 

* * *

Cirql chapter 6.  
a thing off in the distance gets closer and closer. 

* * *

Get up to see what he's talking about.  
Squint through the dark.

Those are shadows, hon.  
"No, there and there," he says, moving to the phone on the wall and plucking it from the cradle. "I can see them." A pause. "The phone's dead."  
What?  
He hands it to me and I put it to my ear. Nothing. "Phone's dead," he says.

Make my way over to the cradle and tap the button. Phone's dead. I put it back on its cradle.  
Suddenly a knock on the door stops us cold.

"Honey," he whispers, slowly stepping forward towards the living room. "Go get and load the gun."  
I'm following a step behind him. Where is the gun? I ask.  
"It's under the bed. The bullets are in the case. Go quickly but don't. Make. Much. Noise."

On cue I slide by him in the living room and quietly make my way up the stairs as quickly as possible. Another series of knocking sends jolts of electricity up my spine.  
I peer under the bed.

"Who's there?" Arthur demands.

My shaking hands grab the case and slide it out from under the bed before opening it. Trembling fingers stuffing the cartridges into the cylinder.  
Carefully snap it shut with both hands and quietly make my way out of the bedroom and back down the stairs.  
Arthur's ear to the door.

Arthur, I whisper. He doesn't respond. Arthur...  
He holds up a finger to quiet me.  
Approach and look through the peephole.  
Nothing. Darkness. It's as if whoever it is is holding their finger up to it. Or looking back through...  
Step back and grab his arm, slightly louder I say his name.  
He looks up and the knocking is loud and fierce as ever. Really hammering away in quick succession.  
Arthur looks at me in confusion, resisting my pull slightly. Stopping. And that's when we hear the voice. The scratchy, broken voice.

"Arthur it's me," the muffled voice says through the door. "I need your help... I'm bleeding awful bad out here, I need you to call a doctor.."  
"Binky?" Arthur says, turning back around. "Binky is that you?"  
I grab him again. He looks at me confused, again. Arthur, I don't trust it.  
"Nadine," he says, his expression turning angry. "We have to help him. He was my friend..." he trails off before returning his attention to the door.

I let go and stuff revolver in the back of my sweatpants, lifting Arthur's shirt I'm wearing over it and dropping it to conceal it as best I can.  
Arthur opens the door to a little kid in a red button up shirt with his hand stuffed into a bloody towel and hugged to his chest.

"M-my hand, Arthur," he says, letting himself, walking past Arthur, past me, towards the kitchen. "They took my hand."  
Arthur's gaze follows him, his face pale and expressionless, as if he's seen a ghost. He shuts the door and locks it before grabbing me by the arm this time, and pulling me close. "Binky Barns is a year older than I am. I haven't seen him since the third grade, when he got held back again. That is not Binky Barns," he whispers.  
His eyes, cold. Black. He continues.  
"Keep the gun ready. I'm gonna go talk to him."

My hand goes under the shirt for the butt of the gun and grips it tightly.  
My heart pounds harder with every step Arthur takes towards the kitchen table, where the kid is sitting, hugging his messy bundle and violently shaking.  
Take a step foreward without really thinking about it. Arthur sits at the table across from him.

"What happened, Binky?"

"Y-your parents called..."

"Excuse me? My parents?"

He nods furiously, still shaking. He begins rocking in his chair, slightly. "Your parents c-called, and they told me what happened?"

"What happened, Binky? How did my parents call you? My parents are dead, Binky. How are you here?"  
"Your parents called me and told me you were alllll alone, all alone..."  
"Binky. You're a year older than me. You, uh. You should have grown up..."  
"That's why they called," he's breathing hard. Arthur leans in. "They called because I'm older than you. You need a babysitter while they're gone. A babysitter.."  
Arthur, get out of there.

Before I can respond, Binky grabs him by the arm and throws the bloody towel to the floor, brandishing a butcher knife. Pressing his unsuspecting hand down on the table, very swiftly he raises it and slams it down into the wood through Arthur's wrist. The gun goes off before I know it's even in my hand and the dead boy falls back into the chair and down to the floor while blood sprays violently from Arthur's arm, splattering spotty patterns of crimson on the wall paper and cabinets. I rush to help.  
I take off his shirt and wrap it around his arm. His own vital fluids staining his yellow sweater.  
He's screaming, and it's awhile before he stops. Panting and crying. Choking on himself.

"I dunno what happened," he says in disbelief. "I dunno what's happening. Nadine, is this real? Is this-"  
"I cut off your HAND you stupid asshole! HAHAHA! I'm YOUR BABYSITTER and I CAN DO THAT."

Turn around to see him laughing in a pool of his own blood, his teeth working behind the whole in his face shredded by the bullet.  
I put two more in him and stuff the gun back into the band of my sweatpants. I grab him by the shoulders and drag him to the back door on the other side of the table.  
I look out. Arthur is right. There must be a dozen people in our yard. Standing there. Closer now, in the light. My heart races.  
I unlock the door and open it before dragging him out onto the porch and stepping back in, relocking the door and stepping back.

He's knocking again. "Arthur! This is your babysitter! You have to listen to me! Open the door!"  
Stepping back as the pounding persists I almost trip on Arthur. I look down at him. He looks weakly back up at me. "Don't answer it," he says with barely an ounce of strength. I look at him like he's fucking nuts.  
I sit next to him and help him apply pressure to his wound. Are you okay?  
"I don't think so, Nadine. Getting your hand cut off really hurts a lot."  
I'm sorry, baby, but I need you to hang on for me, okay? I can't do this by myself. Where's the CB radio?  
He laughs bitterly. "In the shed."  
Fuck.

I stand up to look out the window again. They're closer, but still unmoving. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
Not an option.

We're gonna have to make a run for the truck, okay? I need you to be strong for me, Arthur, okay?  
He nods feverishly.  
I need you to do better than that. I need you to be strong. Okay?  
"Okay," he says, resolved. "Okay, okay. I got this. We got this. Can you go get the keys from the night stand?"

"This is your babysitter," the voice and the knocking persist. "You have to listen to me. I killed your babysitter and now I am your babysitter. Arthur!"

I notice I'm frozen when Arthur waves me off. "Go," he says, "quickly."

I run up the stairs and into the bedroom and I don't see the keys on the night stand on his side of the bed. Or mine, for that matter. I look around and behind it and under the bed. Nothing.  
Fuck!

Panic for a moment before heading back down the stairs. Arthur, they're not there, where else could they-

Arthur...?

Arthur is slumped over himself.  
Quiet. Still.

Arthur!  
Kneel down by him and shake him by the shoulders until he stirs. "Sorry," he says, drowsily. "I don't feel well."  
I know, baby, but we gotta just find those keys and get out of here.  
"They're not on the nighstand..?"  
No, and I need you to help me find them, we've got to get out of here.

A soft knocking. A woman's voice.  
"Arthur, I am your babysitter," the voice says, quietly. Concerned. "I gave birth to you. How could you misbehave like this."  
"Mom..?" he says in disbelief.  
That's not your mom, Arthur. C'mon, we have to get out of here.  
"You don't sit down when you pee, Arthur. How many times have I told you? How many? Gentlemen sit down when they pee so that there's no sprinkle. Mopping it up with toilet paper just isn't enough, young man. You're just like your filthy dead father."

He struggles to get up, holding me for support.  
When the lights go out, so does he, dead weighting in my arms.

Arthur, no, I say kneeling back down to him in the void. But, I don't feel him. How is this possible. I feel around for him in the dark and...  
No! Nonononono! You can't leave me, Arthur! I need you!

I look up to more knocking. I see shadows of people just outside the window in the faint moonlight.  
Fall back and back pedal until I feel the rug under me.  
More knocking behind me. I try to ignore it, I try not to sob, but it's his voice, it's his voice and many others speaking, whispering at once.

Ņ̸̡̯͔͔̳̖̥͖̏̅̃̓͒́̚͜͜͝ȧ̶̛̟͓̝̼̗͙̊̉́̉̉̾̑̓̚͜d̸̨̛̙͉͊̒̊̈͗̒̈́̎̎̓̇̈́̍͝ì̷̧̡̛͕̺̲̟̳͍͕̺̀̽̀̓̃̉̌͌̕̕͜͝͝ņ̶̨̡̥̥͔̬̝͇̤̜͚̰̂̓̇̍̿̌̍͠ḝ̴̖̖̰̭̩̤̯̓́̍̐͜,̶̰̼̼̪͋͌͌́̑͐̇̕͠͝ ̷̧̟͍͖̬̻̼̚i̵͚͇͕͚̖͍̮̋̓̅̏̃̅̇̃̇̚̕̕ẗ̷̼̝̮͎̖́͜͜'̵̡̻͔̳̦͚̻̑́̔̒̿̐̀̀̚͜s̵̢̛͇͍̯̥̗̪̩͈̼̟̺͊͗̑̏̍̊͊͋̆̀̇̾̕ ̵̨̢͚͙̈́̈́̀̂̈̚m̴̻̟͎̦̩͕̎́͋̉̏̕ͅę̴̝͉̰̝͍̏̀̎̍̄̋̀́̽.̸̼͔̐̊̾̑̀̏̈́̒̍ ̴̯̰͎͎̰͈̓͊͐̌́̔̿̌̌̒͑͝͝Ý̵͇̣͕̤͊̏͐͝ơ̷̬̫̙̽̀̓̈́̊͌͝ų̵̰̯͈̣̭̥̼̭̻̭̯̆̇̑̃͊͠͝r̷̼̙͌͋̿ ̶̦̜̔͐̍̃́̓͠b̶̗̗́͊̐̇̅̍̃̇͑̄́̏̈́͊͗a̶̛̹̜̦̦̤̬̪̘͇̔͐͜b̶̡̢̟̬̰̏̈́͗͗́̌̿̈́͘y̶͇͍͙̼̝̱̞̬͉͊s̵̛͚͖̗͙͎͕͊͊̒̔̊̋̂͒̐̏̚͝ï̵̡̯̭̩͓̔̆̇̀͛͊͌͝͝͠ẗ̷̹͉̻̠̗̍̾͗̐͝͝t̴̳̖͇̻̖̘̭̦̳̍e̶̬̞͎͉̟̿̅̈̆̽́̈́̆͆̏̉̓͋͜͠͝ͅr̸̮̟͚̥̘͈̀͊̍͗͘͝͝.̶̛̹͗̚ ̷͈̭̺̭̥̥̟͓͈͆͂̂Ǒ̸̜̹̄̓͐̾̎̌͠p̷̨̩̖͓̞̹̭͓͔̙͝ͅẽ̷̦̼͈̝̮̥̯̝̤̝̼̄͊̓͛́̄͋̂̂̊͠n̶͔͕̩̖͈͍̗̲͇͊ ̵̢̪̙̰̯̳̖̮̜͔͂̉̑̚ư̸̢͙͎̤̝̱͍̞͙̠̮̂͛̈̕p̴͍͚̿͗͊̾͌͝,̴͎̝̼̆̍̋̇̇̊̄́̐̋̇͘͘͠͠, it says. Ỳ̸̛̻̳̻͒̇͐̔̚͝o̴̫̞̻͐̒͆̔̏͐̾u̸͍̘̻͗́̎͋͛͋͛̂̔̈́ ̸̨̼̹͈̱͇̜͖̬̥̱͕̒̓̊̈̀́̃͗͝ͅw̴̨̤̰̻̙̭͉̗̠̏̀͗̈́̀̄̃͗̉̈́̀ę̴̡̼̣̫̤̐̓̊͗̽̂͐̍͌̐̏̕̚̕r̴͍̰̟̼̩̤͍̠͎̳̰̜͔̲͑̈́̎̍̾́̒͂̈́̚͝ē̴̘̞͖͉͍̭̳̘͓̖̈́͆ͅ ̴̡̛͔̟̪̥̗͚̙̟͇̔̈̒̔̏̏̿͘ͅŕ̵̗͖̹̲̹͓̤̭͉̭͎̐͘͜͜i̵̛͔̬̒͋̊̾͗̆͠g̶̙̝̪̘̹̤̬̮͘͜h̷̡͖̼̞̫̯̗͎͕̎͛̋t̴̛̛͓̟̬̿̈́̅̌͋ ̷̢̖̳͚̾̑̃͌̈́̅͒͘͠ḇ̷̢̢̜̠̖̖̯͇͙̲̋̂̇͋͗̚͘e̷̠̮̟̳̠̟͖̼̬̝̅ͅf̵̮̮̪̒̊̕o̶̰̬̟̙̗̿͆̈́̓͐̑̔͐̓͆̇̓̄́̐r̶̛̠̅ḙ̷͎̳͚̹̭͈̰̼̠͉̥̱͌̈́̊̃̓̓͐̓̒̂̾̅̚͝͝ͅͅ.̵̛̯̟̗̝́̆̂͋̈́́͛͗̀̐̚̚͜͜ͅ ̶̢̡̡̛̫̩̬̫̤̬̰̻̗̇̎̂̊I̶̢̤͍̻͚̣͔̻͕̣̖͉͐͜ ̸̫̠̠̦͕̮̘̳͎̪̃̑͒̾̈́̍̊͗͝ͅh̶̠̹̒̓͐̈ā̶͇̫͇̺͈̹̣̮͉̍̿̀͘ḑ̵͓͌̂͋͐̀̊͌̑̍͝ ̷̢̪̝̖̜̪̀̑͗̉̎͗ͅą̸̘̼̹͍̹̲͓̭̑͑̓̔̀̔͊̓̇̒̅̈́͝ ̷͙̯̜̍͒̒̒̅͘͠͝s̶̨̝̠̖̳̹̼̱̩̙͝i̴̦͂̀̂ş̷̂́ṫ̴͚̬̪̮̻̿̈́̀͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅe̷̬̠͖̯̟͎̭̝̱͕̼̗̥̬͑̈́͑̐̆̑̋͠͠r̷͔̖͚̘͙͇̪̖͛̉̉̈́̍̄͒̎̒̽̈́̃̎ͅ ̵̜͖̣̥͖̺͎̱͈͔͗̑͌̊̂̑̇͑͒̕ͅt̷̛͙̪̣͉̒̾̊̂́́͜h̶̡͚̪̦͈̞͈͚̖͓̣͆̀͋̓͋̌̅̃̄̈͐͑͠͠i̸̛͍̰̓̈̈́̏̆͒̓́͛̓͗̚̚̚s̵̼̝̹̙͖̖̮͈͔̑̀͊̿̈́̈͋͐̏̚͜͜͝ ̴͎̅͌͒̂͂̽̐̑̚ͅw̷̤̐͌͋̐͗̑͐͑̉͝͝h̷̢̢͔̯͖͓͈͙́̍̃̄͑̆͐̀͝ơ̸̞͓̜͔̟̻̈́ͅͅl̸̨̛̟͉̠̜̻̐̔̌̔͌ę̸̨̤̺͈̬̱͓̺̰̪̺̻͊͛̂̌̄̐͗̆̊̐̓̂̔̕͘͜ͅ ̸̝̫͍͈̗͖̱͊̈́̓́̓̎̏͛͊̕͝ţ̶̡̟̹͚̘̼̮̮̲̹̩̑̒̚̚i̷̳̤̘̤̝̻̾͗͝͠m̶̛̹͗̏͑̾̈́̑́̔͝e̸͕̺̣̟̩̟͇͖̘͖͐̋̓̎̽͒̆̕.̸̢̰͕͍͍̙͖̜̗͈̓̑̈́͒͌͋͝ ̸͓̖͚̱̥̱̰̲̥̮̖̬̮̈́͒̓ͅH̴̨̢͎͖̩̩̬̤̻͈̪͈̥̠̦̐͒͋̓̀̓̐̽́͛̾̒̾̕͠é̸̢̺̟͓̪̥̝͔̼̣̼́̈́͐͂̽́̆͛͊͜r̶̨̢̨̰̥̱͈̰͓̞̖̕͜ ̷̧̟̲̍̓̔̾̌̈́̊̈́̇̈́̊̏͝͝͝ͅn̵̻͙͓͎̹̘͎̓͗͐̕ả̸̮̻̅̿͗̀̈̔̐̃͑̕̚͠͝m̶̨̧͓͙͍̖̘͚̫͈̜͈̬̺̐͛̏͌ȇ̷̡͚̰̟̥̗͓͓̂͛̿̀̌̅̕͝ ̷̨̨̝̜̳̠͚͕̱͔̒̅́ỉ̷͖͙̓̾̾̂́̂̓̀̌̑s̸̡̨̟̝͖̮͍̭̻̮̆̍̅̓͆͘̚͝ ̶̢̛̺̩͔̥̮̻̼͖͈̭̩̔̒́̊̆̍̈̍̇͝D̶̨̪̞̙̩̮͉̿̈́͌̎̎̏͊.̶̨̗̠͔̩̲̞̼͍̘̊W̴̗̞̆̎̈́͌̑̇̂̓̽̔̓̈́̉̽͝.̷̡̡͕͖̳̘̲̪̘̳̘̼͓̈̄͜͝ ̴̡̨̞̠̜̱̙͇͚̈̾͆͝a̷̱̝͙͚͙̠̤̫̻̱̔͂͌̽͛̍͑͂́̔̆͆͝͠ͅͅn̸̬̳̞͉̠̺͂͋͘͝d̷̜̿̐͌̀̀́̂͐͆̅̒͠ ̴̨̢̻̖̤̭̬͒̎̈́̍͒͑̎̈́́̂s̵̨͉̮͍̮̘̦̤̤̹̱̪̠̋̆̿̓̐̅͂̾̅͑ͅh̵̝̲̯̜̟̮̒̽̃̈́̈̄̀͂̈́̀͠è̶̬̝̼̰ ̶͓̫̥̺̪̘̓̿͐́̐͒͂͝r̷̡͓̱̱͙̗̘̠̭̣̱̤̰̓͋̐͝e̷̛͔̬͔͚̝͊͗̓̐̒̓́̈͒͘͠͝m̶̫͍͚̔̽͐͘͝ė̶̻̰͖̞̫̼̝̦̼̰̘̜͍͇̀̍̊̽͋͗̔m̷̫̟̙̗̈́̄͊̓̓b̸̧̦̻̝̹̹̀ȇ̷̮̓̚r̴͕̼͓̘̠̖̥͖̦̈̎̍͛̌͛̔̄̕s̸̱͖̝̩̱͓̀̊̀͑̽̐͜ ̶͔͉͈̳̲̬͓̖͒͊͐̒̊̔̽̈́̒͠͠͠e̵̗̰̻̙̝̿̎̃́̿̒̋̌̉͒͊͊̂͝v̵̻̠̲̱̼͎͙̓̉́͒͆͆̏̒͒̚̚ȅ̷̬͔̘̲̺͇r̴͔̥̲̼̗̘̯͖̈́͊̅y̸̨̡̡̼͍͇̣͓̤͒͆͛̂̈̏̀͒̾͑͗̿͝ṯ̸̨̻͉̥͔̜̳͓̭̘̮̿͂͋̍h̷̡̧̢̼̮̰̫̯̤̤͇̩̪̻̒̉̓̓͝i̸̢̛͙̦͈̼͈͚̩͙̫͙̔̏̂̄͘͝͝n̷̢̺͉̣̯̈́͒̎̓̂̂̓̃͂̈́͊̕͠͝ǵ̴̡̜̫́̈́̌̈́̀͘.̸̡͈̜͎̫̤͇̮̘͚̙͙̑̔̅͐͊̓͑̓̓̊̾̏̍̕̚.̷̧͎͊́͒̅́̉̍̇̒̀͌͘͠͠ 

* * *

cornwallace - 2019


	7. Dearly Beloved

Arthur's muffled screams through the walls from upstairs simply prolongs his time with the scorpions. This is something he's cognizant of, but is unable to control.  
Mrs. Read finishes setting the table before calling her loving and happy family down for supper. 

* * *

Cirql chapter 7;  
 **Dearly Beloved**

* * *

"It smells delicious, Mrs. Read!" Mr. Read and them said as they sat down on the table and adjusted there napkins into bibs and lap blankets.

"Dig in!" Mrs. Read says joining the table.

"Is Arthur coming?" DW asks, scraping bloody meat onto her plate and taking a sip of dog milk.

The supply of dog meat in their coldbox is wearing thin, and they'll need to harvest another Pal from the core before too long, but not before Arthur learns his lesson and sufficiently cycles the heartbreak of losing his only true loved one once again.  
Only then can the product truly be recycled. For if it were to exist, even in secret, it were to exist.

DW contemplates the sacrifices she makes for this family before savoring another thick mouthful of canine lactation.

"Your brother will stay in his room with the scorpions until he's quiet long enough to achieve an intimate introspection session," Mrs. Read says flatly.

"He keeps screaming," DW says over his pounding on the door. His begging for mercy. "I don't think he's anywhere close to an intimate introspection session."

"Neither do I," says Mr. Read. "The fool is hopeless. That's why I added significantly more scorpions this time."

"How many scorpions, daddy?" she asks, knowing full well how many scorpions.

"Oh," he starts, chuckling, sipping his cocktail of whiskey and crushed ice. "I added a bunch to his room. Hundreds. All kinds. That's not even counting the spiders. Killing them all isn't quite the reasonable expectation you might think it is. Especially since I emptied his room entirely and took his shoes."

This was one of DW's favorite stories, and she is glad her father is telling it to her.  
She remembers a time Arthur's parents loved him, but they don't misbehave that way anymore. Such is the nature of her influence.

"DW, you are my favorite child, living or dead," Mr. Read says, looking at her and then his wife.

"I agree with Mr. Read, DW, you are objectively the best of our children. Living or dead."

"In fact!" Mr. Read says, proposing a toast,, "you're the best children ever! In the whole universe and all of its adjacent dimensions!"

Mrs. Read drinks to that. "Speaking of our wonderful child, how was your day at school?"

"Oh, you know," DW says, knifing the charred remains of what is understood by her "parents" to be her "sister". Chopping and cutting at it really sloppily. She thoughtfully takes a bite and speaks with her mouth full. "Mr. Ratburn gave us a test today so I made him eat his lungs. He stayed alive for a whole hour because I kept him that way!"

"He must of suffered a lot," Mrs. Read says, lovingly supporting her perfect daughter. Her eye twitches, the flash of a trapped soul can be seen deep within her pupil, seemingly unnoticed. But DW knows its there. That's where she put it on purpose.

"Probably," she says, chewing another mouthful of baby Kate. She eyes the infantile cadaver centerpiece to the table before looking at her parents in the eyes simultaneously from across the table. "Aren't you eating?"

She gives them all just enough free will to make it painful beyond conscious understanding to react defiantly.  
Arthur was always the most defiant. That's why she's most interested in him at times. The desperation emitting from his very soul as he pounds on that door and begs deaf ears for help, mercy, and perhaps most amusing, love from the people doing this to him.


End file.
